The Homestead
by ConstantTraveller
Summary: The inhabitants of the Davenport Homestead know very little about Connor. They are curious though, and inquisitive, a bit nosy and very observant. Snippets of their interactions, including a now finished mini-series! Includes members of the Guild.
1. Myriam & Dr Lyle

**The Homestead**

**Disclaimer: **I do not own anything in relation to AC3.

**Summary: **Despite living closely with Connor, the inhabitants of the Davenport Homestead know little about him. A few snippets of their interactions with him.

**Spoilers: **For the plot end of AC3 in the second part of the story.

**AN: **I am always fascinated by how people react to the assassins, especially Connor. I wrote these from the perspectives of Myriam and Dr Lyle. If you enjoy it, there can be more to come. Good reading!

~~~~~~~ AC3 ~~~~~~~~~~

It's so cold that she instantly regrets not wearing another layer.

Myriam wants to be silent and light. She wants to surprise the stag and walk away with a pelt that's beautiful and untarnished by a panicked stab. She's running low on funds and she needs it to supply herself with food for the last of winter. It's hard being on her own but she's never been a 'catch.' She can count on one hand the amount of men who have ever been interested in her and most of them had sobered up pretty soon anyway. She's not the kind of girl to live on dreams so she's better off walking through freezing gusts of wind for a pelt that's worth half her house than touring the taverns for a husband.

A slight rustle sounds beside her and she notices a shadow, drifting in and out of the forestry.

She's never seen a person like him before. He's quieter than she could ever hope to be. Only his clothing gives him away in the snow littered ground of their homestead.

Up ahead, the stag pauses in its grazing and lifts its enormous head.

She glances at Connor, who is staring at it intently. His face is drawn and focused on its movements. His body coiled and ready to spring at a moments notice. She's more than grateful that he is helping her and that he treats her plea with such seriousness. She once thought that she might be in love with him. But she feels as if you have to know someone to fall in love with them and well… nobody knows who Connor really is. He just appeared in their lives like a saviour and shared their land in return for a simple thanks. He comes and goes at all times of the day and night and leaps through the trees like its second nature. She has traded with many of his people before for shelter and food and none have been as wild and wise as he is. Nor as handsome.

Myriam blushes at her thoughts and turns away from the man beside her, fixing her gaze back on the stag.

It senses danger, despite their care, and it's huge body ripples as it wades through the snow and into a patch of trees. Its breath mists in front of it and its fur catches the delicate crystals of snow that are falling. She nearly swears as the coverage increases and it is hidden completely. She's strong but the thought of losing the animal makes her eyes nearly well with tears. She can't live on air. She needs this.

Connor is still watching it though. He hasn't moved but his eyes have changed in a way she can't explain. They do not peer through the snow as hers do but look as if unburdened and able to see clearly. It reminds her of an eagle, looking into the distance at a burrow that no human eyes could spot.

The stag is completely hidden by the thick forestry and yet Connor's eyes are still trained on a specific spot, moving slowly across it with an analytical seriousness. It's as if he can see through to the living beast behind it. As if the lifeblood of that stag is beating only for his eyes to see.

The hedge is many metres in length and yet the man has already cocked his bow, arrow at the ready. She thinks it foolishness but there's nothing that she can suggest. His arrow will be lost in the leaves and the stag frightened away. Not to mention that the snow falls thicker and their visibility fails with each moment that passes.

She's already given up.

But Connor hasn't. His arm pulls back the bow, and releases. The head of the stag appears at the edge of the forestry for just a moment and then, with a mournful cry, it collapses on its front legs, blood dripping onto the white snow. The thick arrow is lodged in its head, piercing its brain and the death is swift and merciful.

Connor doesn't smile, doesn't even blink at the action. He's taken down a full grown stag in a blizzard and he acts as if it was simple and easy. She stunned by the skill and the inhuman display of senses and judgement. Her knife is hanging uselessly by her side, a gesture of her defeat.

They wade towards the beast, the snow now waist deep and stare down at its body. Blood drips from its nose in a steady stream and its eyes stare vacantly at them.

"We should skin it now, before its body freezes," he says, beside her.

She nods, still stunned.

"If you need me to, I can do it." He continues, his dagger already drawn.

He's too helpful. She wonders what he wouldn't do if asked. It's not many people who would enter a blizzard, kill a full grown stag and offer to skin it, all because someone had asked.

"I'll do it," she says. "You can go home. But… thanks." She says, with a wearied smile, "I… don't know what I would have done without it. Without your help."

He breaks out a smile, small as it is and she's reminded of how young he is. "Do not wait to seek my help if you need it again. I would be glad to help you."

She feels like she should be blushing but she knows her expression is probably quite aloof. He's charming and kind and she almost opens her mouth to lie about another problem, before realising that such offers do not come lightly. Myriam feels ashamed at her quick thoughts to deceive him.

"Thank you, Connor. Before you go though-" she says as he turns to leave, almost disappearing in the snow entirely, "How did you see it, through the bush? I couldn't see my own left hand in this weather."

"I used the other sight. Do you not possess this as well?"

"The other sight? No. I only see one of everything…"

"Oh," he says, with a frown. "It is nothing, Myriam. A lucky shot."

She stares at him for a moment, "Okay, Connor. Next time your at the inn, I'll buy you a beer."

He grins and the tension is gone, "I'll hold you to that."

Within a moment, he disappears, a shadow now vacant from her sight. She stares down at the deer, wondering about the other sight. A shiver runs up her spine as she remembers his gaze as he backtracked on himself.

He's an odd one, she can't deny that and she's going to keep her eyes on him.

It disconcerts her though, that, as she looks around, she can not spot a single trace of his previous presence. The snow is falling in such strength that his wade marks are covered, as well as his retreating footsteps. The only thing that remains is the feathered shaft that is burrowed deep within the skull of the dead stag.

Within seconds, he's faded out of existence and she's left, once more, alone in the woods.

~~~~~~~~AC3~~~~~~~~~~~

If there's one thing that he misses it's a good quality wine.

He's used to people pouring him piss and calling it a sav but he could never quite get used to the taste of moonshine from a bathtub. He'll still drink it but it rots his tastebuds from its foulness.

Still, he's comfortable in his life. Comfortable with his glass of cheap liquor, his merry little fire and the non-urgent injuries of a farming town. He loves the surge of adrenaline from surgery or attending to the thousands of dying soldiers on a battlefield but he's older than he looks and tired; so very tired. The only thing calling him is the bed and a nice thick blanket to chase away the cold.

"Dr Lyle?" Comes a voice through the door and he cocks an eyebrow. A caller, at this time?

"Just a minute," he says as he drains the last of his glass, winces and heads for the door.

Connor is standing at the door, slightly bent and, as usual, shadowed. It's late and the moon is behind the house now and it helps little in showing him the state of the man.

"Come in, come in. You do know what time it is, don't you?" He says, slightly irritated as he steps aside and sweeps a hand carelessly in the direction of his chair.

The man steps forwardly, shakily, and for the first time, he notices that the man is clutching at his side.

"Are you alright?" He says as he moves forward to sling the mans hand over his shoulder and support him until they get to his chair. Connor waves him off, stumbling slightly as he slams agains the doorframe, rights himself and then walks hesitantly towards the table and chair.

As he steps inside, he can see that the man isn't just covered in blood but completely drenched in it. It drips from his side wound and its dried in a red current down his leg. And theres more blood, coating his face, his hands and his back. And yet, he can only see the one wound, certainly not enough to explain the splatters.

"What happened, Connor?" He says as he grabs his medical supplies. Some alcohol, some gauze, some bandages and a good bit of opium.

The man doesn't answer, just flings himself in the chair, sighs wearily and then tilts his head back and stares at the ceiling. Lyle snaps his finger in front of the mans face, who blinks a few times before looking around in a confused manner, as if questioning how he came to be in the house. Lyle wonders how long the man had been in that condition and how much blood he had already lost.

"Talk, Connor. I want you to talk. I'm not going to let you fall asleep so you'd better open that mouth," he cuts at the front of the mans clothes as he says this, revealing more blood and an extremely well toned set of abs. He feels slightly jealous but then again, he does like food.

"Are you going to stitch me up?" Says Connor, slowly.

"Yes."

"Oh."

Lyle pours a glass of the moonshine piss, "here, drink this."

"I can handle a bit of pain."

"I don't doubt that but you look like you need it anyways."

Connor takes a sip, looking slightly relieved at its bite. Lyle is glad, for a brief moment, that the liquor is so horrible that it seemed to shock the man into awareness again. The man looks at the glass and then at him, as if asking why he would betray him with such a horrible taste.

"Don't…. give me that medicine," says Connor as he looked at the opium.

"It will relieve the pain."

"I do not want it. I wish to remember this pain."

Lyle doesn't respond. He likes Connor, he truly does, but he doesn't understand his savage beliefs. He would never deny relief to pain. He's heard that the savages in the west wear their scars like medals. Excluding his friend, he's of the opinion that the whole lot need a wake up call of the civilised variety.

"Well, get to it then," he says as he wipes away the blood and threads his needle, "how did you get in this state?"

"Hm," says the man, staring into the fire, "it is a long story."

"-And I've got a lot of stitching to do. Now start."

He makes the first stitch, relieved that the man winces slightly and takes another sip of the liquor. For a moment, he was worried that he would hide behind a face of frowns and vacancy. He prefers a reaction of pain than none at all.

"I laid my mother's spirit to rest…"

"Ah, revenge."

"No. It was more than that," he winced as the needle pierced his skin again, "but revenge started it all."

Lyle chuckled, "Isn't that just the way, you start on one path and by the end, you're wondering just how you ended up where you did."

"Yes. My life is often that way."

"Well, I'll not ask specifics. Seems to me that you'd rather not say too much. But I will ask, did it bring you satisfaction?"

He wipes at the wound again, happy at the way his stitching is so neatly progressing. To him, needlework is as much of an art as painting. It is a large wound but the man will survive. He's seen men on the battlefield walk away despite blown up arms or festering arrow wounds. He would always be surprised by the will of a human to survive and the savagery of humans to kill.

Connor had yet to answer, his gaze clearly showing how seriously he took the question.

"Satisfaction would mean I now know the end. True, that my personal revenge has been taken but there is too much of this that I do not know and never will. I am content but not satisfied."

"But you are finished? With whatever business this wound is all about?"

The man is completely disoriented now. Lyle watches as he reaches for the glass of liquor and completely misses it. Connor seems to realise that he is in a dangerous state and one that could mean slipped secrets from a loose tongue. But Lyle has always upheld his code of confidentiality so he simply pours him another glass of piss and pushes it into the mans outstretched hand. Connor gazes at it, entranced, before knocking it all back. What with his loss of blood, weariness and the fact that he probably hasn't eaten for a while, Lyle is sure that he'll be drunk in no time.

"I do not know. I know so little," Connor looks upset now, the first show of emotion other than happiness or anger he has seen on his face, "I know what it is that I have achieved in this world but I do not know about the others," Lyle raises an eyebrow, "After all this… work… and the spirits tell me nothing."

Lyle ducks as the man throws the glass at the wall, his face furious. His expression suddenly pale as the pain from his side wound flares. Lyle slaps away his hand as it goes to nurse the injury, a quick reaction that he knew would happen from such a sharp movement. He's seen this reaction to weariness and pain a million times before so he simply pushes the half drained bottle of moonshine into his hand and continues to sew. One more glass he'd have to buy, he thinks.

"All my life, I have felt something… watching me. It was always at my side. And now I have nothing. It is gone and I am alone. No family, no clan, no spirits or purpose. Only the brotherhood," he drinks again, "perhaps this is why Archilles is as he is now. How long should I wait for their next move? I have what they seek and yet they don't show?"

Connor's hand pulls at something around his neck, a medallion that glows brightly against his brown skin. Lyle has never seen anything like it. It's exotic in a way that nothing else is and he's seen enough Ming vases to last a life time.

"Perhaps…," he offers, still confused about Connor's ramblings, "… you should go back to where it all started?"

The man is silent. "My village... Maybe I should…"

They are silent for a moment as Connor thinks and Lyle sews. The cocks are crowing by the time the wound is nearly finished and the man's body is coated in sweat from his night of pain and exhaustion. The bottle is empty and Lyle feels as if he's aged one hundred years from peering at the wound with his poor eyesight.

The man never does talk again.

Lyle doesn't expect him to, after all, he's probably exhausted and nearly asleep. He doesn't judge him for his outburst or think too deeply over his words. Out of context, most things sound strange and he's not going to pass judgement on a man who has three quarters of a bottle of piss in him and a wound the size of his arm.

Still, he can't help but feel… unnerved by his words.

When he finishes and the man's head is nodding on his chest, Lyle supports him as he takes him outside to the tent and lays him down on a spare cot. Connor is asleep in a moment and the quiet is a good time for him to wipe down the wound once more and clean the blood off the mans face as well. He reminds himself to draw some water when he awakens.

As he's leaving, he catches sight of the strange medallion again and stares at it for a moment.

He steps back as a woman flickers beside him, a ghost or spirit watching over the sleeping half breed. She's tall and slim, with the face of an angel but the expression of a judge. He doesn't make a sound but she turns to him, for a brief moment, nods and then disappears. It's only for a moment that he sees her but her face, her eyes of knowledge and wisdom, are seared into his brain.

He rubs his eyes. Unsure of what he saw and whether he was hallucinating. Connor mumbles in his sleep, oblivious to the world.

Lyle resolves to lay off the drink for a bit.

~~~~~~~~~~ AC3 ~~~~~~~~~~

**AN: **Well, hope you enjoyed that. As I said above, if you did like it, I will do more. If not, I'm happy to keep it at just a one shot. Let me know and thanks for reading.


	2. Prudence

**The Homestead**

**AN: **So I had a pretty good response to my first chapter and, as promised, I'm more than happy to continue if the interest is there. This was an interesting chapter to write. I feel like there is a lot of potential to explore the relationship between Timothy and Connor, as they come from such religiously different backgrounds. I don't wish to demonise any side through my writings so if you feel that I have, let me know and I'll see what can be done.

Happy reading!

**~~~~~~~~~ AC3 ~~~~~~~~**

"B-But I don't wanna!"

"Do not be so rude when he's only trying to help."

"But I don't wanna!"

"Well, tough luck, young man. You are going to learn today and that's final. Now I don't want you moaning and complaining in front of Connor, do you understand me?"

"What if I die?"

"Now why on earth would you do that?"

"Because I can't swim!"

"You soon will. See, there he is now. Connor! Connor?"

Connor turns around, grinning at the sight of Prudence dragging along her son. Hunter looks miserable, she knows, but she is unwilling to give up on her idea to make him swim. Neither her nor Warren had ever learned and she wants her son to never be afraid of the water as she is. Who knows what her child's life might bring and perhaps swimming could be a great gift to him.

"Hello, Prudence. Hello, Hunter."

"Good Afternoon, Connor. Say hello, child."

"… Hi," says the boy. Prudence could see that he had always been awed by the strong man in front of her so she's not surprised when the boy untangles his hand from hers and puffs out his chest. Connor seems to notice this action and she sees his eyebrow twitch, for just a moment, as if amused.

"Are you ready to swim?" Says Connor.

"Yes, sir."

"Will you be watching, Prudence?"

"I hope that is all right. It isn't that I do not trust you, it's just that…" She says, faltering.

"I understand. A mother worries always."

"Yes. Always." She says, truthfully.

"Okay, let us begin." The man turns back to the water, the stream that is running and bubbling in front of them. "Hunter, remove your shirt and shoes."

"Yes, sir," says the boy obediently and Prudence decides to take a seat on a log, her legs aching from the years of bending and walking she has done. She smiles when her boy glances at her for a moment, as if reminding himself that his mother was around. She feels a bubble of pride and love in her chest, something that often afflicts her when she looks at her boy.

She's surprised when Connor starts to remove his clothes as well and she has the decency to blush, before her expression quickly turns into a concerned frown. She knows that underneath his clothes and furs, he has muscles and strong limbs but nothing could prepare her for the copious amounts of scars and bruises and open wounds. She stares (what else is she meant to do?) because they don't look fresh but she's seen Norris pat him on the back, right where a nasty looking cut is and Connor didn't even bat an eye. In fact, she's never even seen him limping and yet there's nothing but slash after slash covering his upper torso.

The one that worries her is the scar on his side. It is wide and spreads along his side like ragged slash. She can clearly see the difference in colour and level, as if a large chunk of flesh had been ripped out of him at some stage. She tries not to say a word, not to react. She knows that Connor would be aware of his appearance or else he wouldn't have agreed to teach her boy. But it shocks her; saddens her. All those wounds and no one to tell about them? How lonely, it seems…

Connor looks around, as if nervous or self-conscious and she can clearly see a persona take over, as he collects himself and turns to Hunter, who is staring at him openmouthed.

"Come on," says the man, as he wades into the stream. He has long pants on but soon they are wet from the merrily bubbling stream. They cling to his thighs and Prudence reminds herself to go to confession after mass.

Hunter rubs at his bare arms and follows. Deeper they go and still Hunter follows his hero. There is clear admiration in those naive eyes of his.

"S-Sir?" Says Hunter, as he stops. He's shoulder high in water and Connor is only hip chest high.

"Okay, Hunter, I'm going to bring you through the water. Before you swim in it, you must learn not to fear it."

The boy nods and she bites her nails, nervously. She had never gotten over her own fear of water, a result of her younger sister drowning one horrible afternoon. She will never forget her blue face and the way the water spewed from her gasping mouth. Prudence shuts her memory off, turning back to the present. Living in the past will do her no good.

"Spread your arms out like a bird," Connor hooks his hands under the outreached arms, before pulling him through the water. The boy's face lights up as the water flows over him and under him. It looks fun, she must admit. Connor brings him deeper, until only the mans head is visible but still, he trails him through and then returns to shallower waters.

"I like that," says the boy.

"Good, now I want you to -"

His voice fades from her attention as she registers the sound of footsteps behind her. She looks up, surprised to see Father Timothy walking towards their group. He is dressed sombrely, as usual, with a wide brim hat and a bible in one hand. He is immaculate and serene in a way that she hopes to one day achieve. She is happy to see him and always happy to hear the good word of God.

"Good Afternoon, Father."

"Afternoon, Prudence. What brings you here?"

"I could say the same of you, Father?"

"Ah, this spot? I read here most days and study my bible. I find that being in His splendour lends itself well to my thoughts," the man chuckles, "although it looks like I happened on a second Christening? Or perhaps a first for our native friend..."

She laughs as she looks over at her son, who is being help up by Connor as he tries desperately to make some movement under the water. Connor is goading him on and the boy seems pleased, if nervous, about the action.

"No, Father, Connor was just teaching my boy how to swim."

"A fine idea, I must admit. I know little of swimming myself and it is good for the boy to not have the fear I do for deep water."

"It is the same with me."

Connor looks over, noticing the Father for the first time. He say something quietly to the boy and he nods, before both head back to the shore. Her son is skipping and laughing by the time he reaches her and looking at Connor as if the world revolved around him. For their little homestead, it certainly seems to.

"Did you see me? I swam!"

"I know, son and I am very proud."

"I was so brave and the water was so deep!"

"I told you it would be fun, didn't I?"

He nods and then looks bashful at Father Timothy, who is grinning at the boy's display of confidence.

"How have you been, Timothy?"

"Very good, Father."

"Well," Prudence says with a cross frown.

"Very well, Father."

"That's a good lad. Ah, Connor. Wonderful to see you again!"

"And yourself," says the man as he wades through the water and walks towards them. This time, Prudence does blush to see the water gleaming on his well built body as he strides confidently through the water. She glances at the Father, who clears his throat at her and she tries to distract herself from such sinful thoughts by nitpicking over her boy.

"What brings you to these shores, Father?"

"I have come to admire the splendour of God and to study his word. I see that you are teaching young Hunter to swim?"

She can see that Hunter is glad for the priest not mentioning his horrifically scared appearance. Within a few moments, the man has tossed on a shirt, covering his torso. She has to remind herself sometimes that the kind man who offered her a new life is actually a warrior.

"Yes, it is a good skill for a boy to have."

"You are quite the adept swimmer yourself."

"It was a large part of my childhood."

"From your skill in the water, I do not doubt that. I don't believe I've ever asked," says the man as he takes a seat on a nearby log and peers at him inquisitively, "what clan are you from?"

Connor looks pained for a moment, which Prudence doesn't expect. She had assumed him to be one with his past and people. But it makes sense that there would be issues, especially considering his residence in the large manor on the hill. How can you be close to your people if you do not even live with them?

"The Mohawk clan in the Frontier."

"Ah, yes. I have heard of them. Moved on, haven't they?"

"…Yes. They have gone north, to better land."

"I would have thought - and forgive me for prying - that you would have gone with them?"

"There has been much that needs to be done in this land and I have not been with my clan for many years now. This is my new home, now."

"So a nomad, like all of us. Come to better lands and never left?"

Connor grins, "Yes. I do seem to attract the same type of person to this new place."

"And we are all grateful. Although, it would be good to see your face in the church on occasion."

"I do not mean to be rude, Father, but that s not something that will happen."

"Yes, you have your own faith. If that is what you're people call it?"

Connor doesn't answer, only looks at the priest with his deep brown eyes. Prudence doesn't want to get involved but she has always been a child of God and she can't ignore that to deny his conversion would be un-christian of her. So she doesn't stop the Father's questioning, only watches.

"Tell me, Connor. Have you heard our Lord's gospel?"

"I have no wish to. I believe in the legends of my people."

"I have not seen you show the faith that we show, if I must be honest. You see my flock queuing for worship each sunday and yet I see no evidence of your beliefs."

"I do not need to sit in silence to worship the spirits and to respect my ancestors." Connor is almost aggressive in his answer but she admires the way that he stands up for himself, against such a stubborn man. Not that she doesn't respect the Father but she wishes that Connor had been uninterrupted in his lesson. "My faith is a way of life and of being with the land. I do not need a book of dead words to guide me through."

"I see… well…" says the man, perhaps sensing that he has stepped over a line, "Just know, son, that if you wish to walk in the light of our Lord and saviour, all you need to do is ask."

"I will make a note of it," says Connor, his expression serious.

A silence falls over them as Connor makes no move to break his gaze from the priest. She feels awkward and in the middle of a continuous disagreement. It was no secret that the Father wished to convert Connor, he had spoken of it many times before at the inn. As Christians, she could not refuse to acknowledge that his conversion would do good but she wants the man to be happy, regardless. If that meant believing in his clans ways, she could accept that.

"Well, I must be off," says the Father, as he rises from his log.

"Goodbye, Father." Says Connor, pointedly.

"Goodbye, Connor. Prudence. Hunter," he finishes with a grin that she can easily see is a mask for his awkwardness.

She watches him as he walks off and Hunter is silent, understanding that conversation was not flowing freely around him. She is happy that he didn't involve himself.

Feeling that some acceptance needs to be promoted, she smiles at him, "So, Connor, the Mohawk tribe was it?"

"Yes, they were the people of my mother."

"So you must have another name then?" She says, encouragingly.

"Yes…"

"You do not need to say it if you don't-"

"It is Ratohnhake:ton."

"That's quite the mouthful," she says bemusedly as he laughs, "what does it mean?"

"It means, 'his spirit lives.'"

"Oh… whose spirit is that?"

"I do not know," he says, earnestly, "my mother died before I had a chance to ask her. I once thought that it was for my father. That his spirit lived within me. But now, I am not so sure. I hope his spirit does not live with me. If anything, I believe it is the spirit of an ancestor, much further in my line than my father."

Prudence ignores his mention of his father. She's connected the dots many months ago that perhaps he did not respect his birth father. His anger was obvious for her to see. She turns to her child, who has waltzed into the water once more, his expression focused and determined as he stares down at the rocky bed. She is glad that he has left. For just a moment, she feels a pressing need rise in her. A curiosity about the man who demands nothing but gives everything to their village.

"Your name, it is beautiful. But Connor… forgive my ignorance as there is something that I have been meaning to ask you. What is it that you… do?" She feels herself stumbling over her words as he cocks an eyebrow at her question, "We see you coming and going at all times of the night. You visit the cities all the time and yet always return to us, with perhaps more anger than you left. So what is it that you travel for and what that fills you with such urgency?"

"I am…" he pauses for a moment, "an ambassador."

"Oh… for your Mohawk tribe?"

"Yes. And for other… affiliations that I have."

"Others?"

He grins and its animalistic in its slyness. She feels as if she is looking at a wolf who has clearly marked a strangler from a herd. He could pounce at any time and yet he watches her patiently and chooses his words with care and meaning. She can imagine him, dressed in feathers and war paint, watching the enemy patiently as he plans his next move. He inspires her imagination, with his otherworldly qualities of kindness and honour.

"Others," he replies noncommittally.

"Well, I want you to know," she says, "that if the Father's words ever grow too much, you can always talk to me. I will help you as best I can. With what, I do not know, but I feel that it is something that you should be able call upon if you need it… perhaps my guidance would be best for you. It is no secret that my heritage is not of a white settler. I have parents of tribal blood, as you do, and I fight with my past with every moment I am a christian."

He's staring at her and she stares back, hoping that her admiration for him can be translated through their silence. He is silent for a moment, "Thank you. Truly. I am glad to have you here, Prudence. You and your family."

"We are glad to be here."

She says, truly meaning it.

**~~~~~~~~~~~~ AC3 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

**AN: **Hope you enjoyed and, as usual, please make sure you drop me a line to let me know your thoughts. I am completely motivated by reviews.


	3. Father Timothy

**The Homestead**

**AN: **…. I hope you all aren't sick of Father Timothy because he's baaaccckkk! :D In my defence, the last chapter wash't actually from his perspective. I really want to emphasise something, I'm not bashing or hating of Father Timothy by having him be interested in Connors spiritual direction. It's just part of being a priest that he'd be interested in that. I want to explore though the ethical dilemma that Connor would have with his life, having now had time to slow down. I'm really loving writing these, to be honest, so I'm just having to figure out which character I next want to choose. Suggestions are welcome!

Enjoy

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ AC3 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In the light of the afternoon sun, the dust floats like snowflakes through the air.

The glass windows, so new and modern, are already dirty from the rains and storms of the changing seasons. Birds have nested in the top of the church, their cooing a patient reminder of their existence. Occasionally, a feather, tufted and pristine, will float to the floor; to join the dirt and mud from his congregations boots as they walk to pray.

It's quiet most of the time in his church. Each sunday is like a christening for the building, a revival of its purpose in the homestead. It echoes with the voices of his sheep and with the silences of their untold sins.

But he enjoys the quiet most. The moments when he can sit and reflect on his life and his sins. On the woman he never got to marry, the brother who never got to live and the drink he never should have touched. For all the guidance that he dispenses, he feels as if his own life is often purposeless and unplanned.

He sighs, staring down at his open bible.

_"He tends his flock like a shepherd: He gathers the lambs in his arms and carries them close to his heart; he gently leads those that have young…"_

His thoughts move to Hunter, the youngest of his flock. Such a dutiful child, not like some of the screaming brats he had cared for in the city. He knows nothing of lying or stealing, a habit that is easily picked up in the life of the city orphans. And yet, he has the look of defiance in his eyes, of unpredictability. It is something that Father Timothy enjoys seeing. Too often, he had been witness to the careless faith of the settlers, who can see no further than the end of their noses when staring down at a beggar or squatter. He's stood vigil over too many bedsides to so quickly dismiss sinners, even those who are so obviously not aligned with the church.

Jesus seems to stare at him as he thinks, his lifeless, painted eyes a reminder of his duty to care for those in the homestead. The candles below him flutter from a directionless gust of wind.

The door creaks open behind him. He doesn't turn around immediately but listens to the persons footsteps. Slow, measured and careful. Hesitant, even, if he dares to say, and nervous of moving towards him. He nearly sighs again, guessing that perhaps his guest is not visiting for pleasure.

To his surprise, it is Connor who sits beside him.

He is not wearing his usual outfit but instead, a plain cotton shirt and slacks. He carries a roughly hewed knife with him, held in place by a sheath that is tied to his leg. His hair is fashioned in the way of his people, a cleanly cut mohawk. His face, as usual, is serious and drawn, weighted with concerns that no one could be privy to.

"This is… unexpected," he says, genuinely surprised.

Connor does not answer for a moment but stares up at the crucified image of Jesus in front of them. Father Timothy stares at his Lord and saviour as well, wondering how such an image would look to an outsider of their religion. His eyes flicker to the trademark spear stab that lines his ribs and the candles that are placed below. It is macabre sight, he admits, even to himself.

"Prudence once told me that when a person has done something… bad, if they tell a Father their worries it can be forgiven."

It is more of a statement than a question and he closes his bible before responding, "All may seek confession; none must do so but some definitely should. Do you seek this?"

"I do not know."

"I can partition you from myself, if you wish to remain hidden when confessing?"

Connor looks confused, "But if I can not face you, how can I claim forgiveness?"

Father Timothy does not reply, once again stunned by the simple wisdom of the man. He had never believed in partitioned confessions. He had always believed that only those with the courage to face their sins could be fully absolved from them.

"Connor," he asks, "do you wish to convert?"

The man looks repulsed by the thought, "No, I only wish for guidance. My elders, the ones who led me in the past, they have all moved on. It is the way of my people to seek wisdom from our elders as they have the most knowledge of the spirits and the world. I do not know who to go to… now that Archilles is… so I have come here."

"Well, I am glad you thought to come to me. You aren't known for being particularly … open about yourself."

"I did not wish to trouble others with my worries."

"Well, then. What is it that you wish to confess?"

The man sighs, "This is private, isn't it?"

"It is between me, you and him," he says, as he points to Jesus, his blank, painted eyes so emotionless with their staring. Connor stays at the crucified image of Jesus for a moment.

"I have sinned. In many ways. There is death on my hands."

It is an old tune to him, "Death is inevitable, Connor. Why does death pain you?"

"Because this death had no justice to it, no reason."

It's not that he's bored of the subject but he's heard too many confessions from soldiers in his time. Too many accidental shots in the dark or misjudged strategies. It's an old story to him.

"I have killed before and done so with the law behind me. I have always done what is right, what is necessary."

"And yet, you sit in front of me, Connor?"

"Yes. I took a life of someone who means more to me than my father. I stole his spirit from him and I have no one to receive forgiveness from."

Father Timothy can see that the man is struggling to speak. His eyes, although not red, have a slight sheen to them and a faraway look. He can tell that the man is reliving the incident in his mind, as he had probably done so many times before. His strength is still there though and his mysterious demeanour. There's a presence to the man that not even tears can break. He has many terrible memories of his own to recall but he can't imagine the horror of visiting murder twice over. To live with the knowledge that another died by your hands.

"Who was he?"

"My brother. Not in blood but… it felt as if we were. He was patient and kind and a skilled warrior. Our village loved him and he gave everything he could to them."

"You miss him?"

The man laughed harshly, wiping at the corner of his eye as he avoided Father Timothy's patient gaze, "Of course. Every day I think of him."

"If I may, what happened to him?"

"We fought. It was not his fault. He was turned against me by an enemy and he came to believe the other side. If I had been there more to speak to him, to guide him, perhaps he would not have believed them…"

"You can not live your life based on what could have happened."

"I am a practical man, Father. I have never lived on false illusions."

"I've noticed. So you fought?"

"Yes. And he pinned me to the ground. I do not know what would have…," the man pauses, fighting his tongue for words to express his thoughts, "… I do not know what would have happened if I had not defended myself. Perhaps he would have seen sense. But I am a man of actions, I could not help what I did."

"You defended yourself?"

"I killed him," he says, softly. Father Timothy is surprised by the lack of emotion in his voice, the change from his earlier display. He's deeply entrenched in memories, far removed from their pew and conversation. "I took his body to the riverside and laid it under a tree. I left him there… when the village was so close. I was ashamed of myself, of what I had done."

They sit in silence for a moment, only the cooing of the birds disturbing them. Connor stares at the wooden floor and the Father only watches him.

"Should you not… say something?" Says the man, finally.

"Do you wish me to comfort you?" He replies.

"Is that part of confession?"

"It can be. If a mother comes to me, crying over a love she lost and a new husband whom hits her, perhaps. If a man comes to me and speaks of defending himself, perhaps not. The confessional is not used as a reactive tool. I do not endeavour to change the lives of those who sit in its depths and release their secrets. But if they change as a result of having a place to be open and to speak, then my duty is fulfilled."

"So I am not to have forgiveness."

"Do you believe yourself worthy of it?"

"… no. No, I do not."

"Then it's not yours to have. Earn it."

"How?"

"Make peace with what you have done. Accept that you can not change it."

"I… I do not think I can."

"Then live with that guilt, let it guide you. Let your actions be true and honest."

The man is silent, thoughtful. He can tell that his words are not what the man wishes to hear. He can imagine the pain that he must live with, the guilt. But he feels something compelling him to resist the easy way of simple forgiveness by the church. The words can not pass his lips to tell the other man that he can move on from his sins.

"But Connor, confession is used as a way to accept the Lord. If this is not what you seek, perhaps this method is not for you. If your people do not believe in sin, then what I say does not matter."

"It does," says the man, firmly, "You are right. An easy answer will not appease me. I would rather live with the truth then deny it for satisfaction."

"And then what?"

"I-I… do not know. I have much to do, as usual. Achilles left me more work than I imagined. But I do not think that will bring me the honour that I am seeking."

"That is one thing I agree with, Connor. Do not throw yourself into work as a way of denying your guilt. It will destroy you. Perhaps, you should think of doing something in remembrance of your brother..."

"Like what?"

"I do not know. I did not know him. But you did, what do you think?"

"Perhaps… I… I don't know either. But he always loved the water. Perhaps I will build him a canoe. Something that he would have loved in life."

"Yes, that sounds nice."

"It does," says Connor, softly.

They sit in silence for a moment. Father Timothy looks down at his bible, his old hands rubbing at the leather-bound and faded cover. He can feel a hum of strength exude from it. There is silence around them and stillness.

"Thank you," says Connor, finally. "For your words."

"It is my job," he says lightly.

Connor nods, before standing from the pew and walking slowly towards the door. Father Timothy lets him go, although he listens intently to the sound of his footsteps as they move further away from him. At the door, he hears the man pause one last time, as if to turn and speak to him, before the door opens and he walks out.

Father Timothy flips open his bible.

_Do not judge, and you will not be judged. Do not condemn, and you will not be condemned. Forgive, and you will be forgiven._

He slams the books shut with a snap as he stands and makes for the door as well.

It all seemed so much easier in theory.

Perhaps he should take up fishing.

"Father Timothy?" Dr Lyle is at the door, his expression nervous and anxiety ridden. Father Timothy ushers him in side, leading him to a pew. The man is fidgeting with his garments and looking around at the empty church with suspicion.

"Can I help you?"

They sit on the same pew that Connor had sat in. The man breathes deeply before he speaks.

"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned."

"What is your confession?"

"I have been drawn by lust and temptation."

He nearly sighs. He had hoped to go walking today, perhaps read a bit by the river. He selfishly wonders for a moment why his congregation seems compelled to all visit him at once.

"Start from the beginning, then."

"Well, it all started when I took on Diana as an assistant…"

_In your patience ye shall win your souls._

~~~~~~~ AC3 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**AN: **Teehee, hope you enjoyed that last bit. I nearly died of laughter when that Homestead mission started. So much potential! Anyways, drop me a line if you enjoyed it, it literally gets me through my day of work to read ya'all reviews.


	4. Ellen

**The Homestead**

**AN: **I'm so excited to have so many wonderful reviews. They all seem very positive as well which has been a huge motivation for me. I can't thank you guys enough! I've had a few requests for Ellen so I've decided to devote this chapter to her. Hopefully you all enjoy it!

~~~~~~~~~~~ AC3 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ellen stares at the forgotten Tomahawk next to the mansion.

Well, at least she hopes it's forgotten.

It's not the kind of thing she really wants to see, especially after hearing news from the Frontier of Indian resistance. She's pretty good at defending herself but she'd be nothing compared to a solid hack by a skilled arm with that weapon.

She can see a notch in the post in front of it, although it's less like a notch and more like someone was in a quick need for firewood. It's an odd sight, that's for sure, but in front of this house, it doesn't seem quite so odd as she thinks it should be. She does concede that perhaps there is a significance to its presence, even if it does look like an inconsiderate act of vandalism.

But she can't stop to admire it or to laze about in the sun; her arms are sore from carrying clothes and she's sweating like a packhorse up a mountain. It's all good and well to admire the daisies or skip through the corn fields but she's a single woman with a bundle of clothes to sell.

Manoeuvring one hand free from the heavy bundle she manages to struggle out a few loud knocks on the door.

Just her luck, no one's home.

She's standing near enough to the door that she's able to rest her head on its wooden panelling and transfer some of the sweat that's on her skin to its cold touch. She's close enough (and lazy enough) that she gives it a few taps with her forehead for good measure. Yep, it's as silent as a whorehouse on a Sunday.

She sighs. Just her luck.

Never would it be known that she isn't resourceful and it isn't as if she's malicious or cruel. If anything, Connor would surely appreciate her going to the effort to laying out the clothes. And he's always honoured an agreement so she's not particularly concerned about the payment. It'll come and it'll be worth the hard work and stress that she went through.

Ellen looks around for a moment, before shrugging and heading around the back. It isn't that she's trying to be sneaky but the last thing she needs is a snooping neighbour to relay news of her entry before she's had a chance to explain. He's a reasonable man or she wouldn't have even entered the Homestead. And she could talk herself out a noose if she needed to.

Locks are hardly a thought in such a peaceful area as hers so she only has to awkwardly manoeuvre her semi-free hand to the doorknob before it swings open gratefully. She heads to the side, her strength nearly giving out as she dumps the piles of clothes on the large, mahogany table. She stands back, looking at it with satisfaction.

A job well done.

Laying out the items, she smooths the material down tenderly. Why Connor needs so many hooded jackets is beyond her but she assumes it for a good reason. Even stranger is his request to sew the strange pattern into each hood, as if a mark for a secret club. She nearly laughs at the thought. What a horrible place to establish a secret club! A completely isolated house, with a bunch of peasants surrounding it? She'd find a more interesting setting at the bottom of a tea-cup.

She shrugs. She's had odder clients. There was that single man who ordered dresses that exactly fit his measurements. Or that well known thief who bought a nobles wardrobe and was later arrested for trying to impersonate a French aristocrat. Such stories are all part of the profession, really.

Well, she thinks to herself, she's already inside so heading out the front door probably isn't an issue. Besides, most of the villagers would assume that Connor arrived home to greet her, having slunk through their crops without being seen to clamber into the mansion by the second story balcony. He's a strange one, she thinks. A very strange one.

She walks to the front door, and stops at the sight of something strange.

A door that she's never seen before. A stairway to something below the house.

She glances at the front door, hesitating. Thinking.

Ellen's been to Connor's house plenty of times before and she's never seen that door. It's artfully concealed and she wonders, with a thrill, what might be in it?

She can't help herself. And what has she got to lose? His respect and his business, she considers for a moment… but then, it _is _a mysteriously concealed door that leads to an underground portion of the house. It's not her fault that he forgot to lock the manor and didn't bother concealing its entrance.

She heads towards its dark depths. She imagines that in romance stories, this is the part where a great gust of wind, tinged with heat and a distant scream, would blow the hair off her face and make her reconsider her actions. But it doesn't, of course.

Her shoe touches the first plank of wood. It creaks, as if berating her, and she lifts it for a moment, before steadily lowering it again.

Ellen's descent is slow and she makes sure to brush her hands over the old, dusty brick of the opposing wall (what if she finds a deranged, addled wife in a locked room or the remains of a hundred red coat soldiers?). She goes slowly and listens intently to the house above her. It creaks, with the old age of a manor, but there is nothing alarming that it reports.

She enters a room and it's lit by candles. It must be regularly visited because the dust of the ground is in all but a single streamed pathway that shows the frantic movements of a man. There is wooden chair in the corner and a single cane leaning against it. It makes her sad and she wonders whether it is set up for Achilles. A chair, forever empty of its owner.

At the centre of the room is a practice dummy and she circles it, noting the hacks and cuts it has. It's looks like it's been repaired a million times before and she touches one of the poorly knit seams. But more than anything, her focus turns to the outfits that line the wall.

They're colourful and beautiful. She's only seen one of the outfits before, the simple white that Connor wears and she's stunned at the rich reds and blues that sit on their designated mannequins. There's quite a few that she can see and each one has a different lining or colour theme. Yet still, she notices, the strange symbol persists. It's sewn onto every costume, if not obviously, then in the cuffs or underneath the hood.

Another red catches her eye and she stares at the last mannequin. It's not the red of dye though and her fascination quickly turns to horror at the sight. Dried blood covers most of it, spanning from a great gaping hole in the side. She moves to stand in front, touching it hesitantly as she wonders just when Connor has such a horrific wound. And more than anything she wonders why it sits like a trophy or a memorial, the last mannequin and the most obvious. The front of the jacket is torn, as if cut apart by someone.

"What are you doing here?"

She gasps, turning around, her mouth covered in shock.

Connor is standing closer than she could have guessed and is staring at her. It isn't a nice stare and certainly not the kind she is used to. It's deep and intelligent and intimidating.

She takes a step back, instinctively, and jolts forward once more when she realises that she's touched the stained jacket.

"I-I was…"

He stares at her still and she quakes in fear. Never has a man made her feel so afraid, not even her good for nothing husband. Ex-husband, she corrects herself.

"What did you see?" He asks patiently.

"N-Nothinng… I was just…," she collects herself, visible and mentally as she stands taller and clears her throat, "delivering those items you ordered."

"What are you doing here?"

"I thought I … heard a noise."

"So you forced your way down here?"

"The door was open."

Connor's eyes widen and his single, focused attention on her changes within an instant. She steps back as he nearly sprints for the tables and shuffles around the papers on top. She watches as he frantically dumps piles after piles of old pages onto the floor, his gloved hands sweeping across the table top in their endless search for something that is not there.

"Where is it?" He demands, angrily, turning around to her. His face is shadowed by the candle on the table top and he looks like the villain of a novel. His mohawk, his expression and the weapons that dangle from his belt makes her nearly quiver in fear.

"What?"

"What did you do with it?"

"Do with what?"

"Did you take it?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't you?" He demands, his eyes narrowed, his full stature revealed as he advances on her. She's afraid, so very afraid. Ellen searches the room for something close to her, something to use as a weapon.

"Are you a Templar?" He asks, softly but with conviction.

"A-A what? What are you talking about?" She says and she can feel tears well up in her eyes. She knew it was only a matter of time before she was killed. At least it wasn't by that rotten, good for nothing bastard of an ex-husband she had.

He's staring at her, in confusion and within a second, his intimidation stature deflates until he is a normal man, standing in front of her. She is blinking back tears and her heart is beating but somehow, she knows that the danger is past. Connor at least looks ashamed of himself, which she feels as well as she thinks of how rude her curious behaviour was. She would defend her property with her life and she's already been put in that situation by her husband. She can understand why the enigmatic man in front of her reacted with such aggression.

"I'm sorry," she says, truthfully, "I shouldn't be down here."

She makes for the door, avoiding eye contact as she holds her skirts and sprints up the stairs. She hears Connors footsteps behind her, this time not concealed and instead, heavy on the wooden planks.

"Wait," he says, as he grabs her upper arm. She stops and turns back to him. Connor's eyes are so deep as she stares into them, she almost loses herself completely. "I am sorry as well; for being so rude."

She doesn't answer for a moment, simply staring at his well carved face and handsome appearance. He seems otherworldly in the moment and the candles flicker once more, creating great hollows in his cheek.

"I left your products on the table."

He lets go of her arm, stepping back a bit, "I know. Thank you. They are perfect."

"My money?" She asks, trying to salvage what little of her dignity she still has.

"Here," he says, as he draws out his purse and shuffles in it for coins. He places a few in her palm and she closes her hand around it in satisfaction. The cold touch of it seems to warm her very being. Her daughter will eat this month.

"I'll walk you out," he says.

She goes up the remaining steps slowly, until, in silence they pass through the front door. He hesitates and asks, "You are welcome to stay for a drink, if you wish?"

He's trying to salvage the situation and to make her feel better. But she's already forgiven him. How can she do otherwise when he looks at her with such confusion and kindness? He's a wild man by nature, she can see that and she doesn't blame him for reacting so aggressively to an intruder.

"No thank you," she says, "But thank you for offering. Truly." She's walking away and he's watching her. She can feel his eyes on her back. It reminds her of something, "Oh, Connor?"

"Yes?"

"I know that I apologised before but… I am sorry for intruding."

"It is fine."

"Do you mind if I ask… what was it that was stolen?"

He shifts from foot-to-foot as he looks at the Tomahawk that lies by the steps, "I can not tell you, Ellen. But I can tell you that you're lucky you didn't interrupt them when they came for it. I do not believe you would have survived if that had happened."

She frowns and nods. She kind of thought it might be something as important as that. Turning again, she heads towards the path, looking at the sun and the sky in front of her.

The manor looms behind her and she's glad when she finally emerges from its shadow and walks into the sun.

She can feel his eyes on her still. Suspicious and inquisitive.

As she walks home, she can still feel his gaze on her. She is used to being watched, a gift from her oaf ex-husband. By the time she's on the bridge and crossing the river, Ellen is absolutely certain that Connor is following her.

She's made a fatal error by barging into his home, she knows that now. Her previous neutral position in his eyes, perhaps even trusting position, is shadowed by suspicion. Whatever this Templar organisation is, she's sure that he hasn't given up thoughts of her affiliation with them. It makes her sad, in a way, that such a simple show of stupidity on her part could plant such a seed of mistrust in his mind. To think so quickly of betrayal suggests to her a man who is used to such actions.

When she arrives home at her house, she has a compulsion to bring her daughter inside, even though the girl screams and kicks and yells to be returned to her playing spot.

But she doesn't let her out and within moments, she's drawn the curtains and lit most of her candles.

Just in case, she decides.

She drums her fingers on the table as she sits in silence, in the dark.

Just in case.

~~~~~~~~~~~~ AC3 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**AN: **I hope you enjoyed this chapter. I think I've shown a different side to Connor. As much as I think he's a noble guy, if I was in his position, I'd watch the people around me with very sharp eyes. Everyone has their price, after all. Ellen always seemed to me to be quite a quirky woman. She married a deadbeat, left him without a word of warning and then set up shop in the middle of the wilderness all from the request of some random guy. Quirky. But I like her. AC3 has some really great female characters so she was fun to write. Remember though, if you enjoyed, let me know by a simple review :D It really does help with updating times!


	5. Norris

**The Homestead**

**AN: **Hope you all are well. I've been at a festival this weekend so a little delay with this one. Spending 12 hours until midnight at a festival, waking up and then going to work for 12 hours at 6 doesn't lend itself well to writing. Annnnddd expect a delay on the next chapter as work requires me to travel elsewhere this week so I'll be gone for the next 3 (4?) days. And probably won't be writing at night since I'll be out.

Okay, so this chapter! Well, I've introduced a new character. I rather like him, if I do say so myself! Hope you guys aren't offended by swearing, after all, if you're reading this, chances are that you've just played a game about murder. This chapter will be centred around Norris, who I think is a great character. Hope you enjoy it and remember to review!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~ AC3 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He runs.

He runs until his throat burns, his legs ache and his head throbs. He runs until his stomach churns and he feels bile well in the back of his throat. He runs until he can't physically run any more and then, he still runs.

He can hear them, behind him. Slower with their heavy weapons and thick coats but they aren't all on foot. He can hear the scream of a horse as someone jerks too painfully on its bridal for another sharp turn. It's hooves thunder across the ground, it's weight a shock to the undisturbed forest around them.

All he does is run but he makes sure to weave in and out of the forest as he goes, not losing them but slowly confusing them. He's thankful for the snow that is thick around the pine trees, which offers him precious seconds of protection as he runs and runs.

He slows and ducks as a fire is shot and the strange silence (or overwhelming noise of his body) slows and he can only hear his breath as it shudders in and out.

He thinks of Myriam, his dear sweet Myriam. He might die, he concedes and he's glad that his final thoughts are for his woman.

Norris looks up again, peering over the snow covered log he's hidden behind and peers at the bandits that are descending the mountain. His back is facing them and he wonders if perhaps they can see his head.

"Do you see him?"

"I hear him, the fucker. He's around here somewhere," says one of the men, as he reloads his gun. The bandit shoots at the sky, before shouting, "I know you're there, you piss soaked piece of shit. I'm going to kill you anyways so show that simpering little face for a measure of good quick mercy or I'll make you scream until your voice gives out."

Norris curses, trying to slow his breathing as he looks around for an escape. He lowers himself onto his belly and pushes himself in the direction of a clump of trees which would offer him precious protection from their searching eyes.

Every movement is careful.

The rocks scrape his chest and he bites his lip to stop from crying out in pain.

It's too late though, as the sound of footsteps assault his ears. They're coming towards him and he tries to lift his body from the ground for a last ditch effort at running once more.

Something heavy pins him and his breath is forced from his lungs. He looks up at the scarred and ugly face of a bandit. The man is older than he is and weathered from years of morally dubious work.

"Well, well. Found you." Says the man, his grin a chilling promise of the pain to come. Mist forms in front of his mouth as he speaks.

Norris stares at him.

He's going to die.

Except, the mans eyes have suddenly gone wide and it's no longer Norris who is struggling for breath any more. The man is gasping as he rigidly stands on top of him and his arms twitch strangely. Something sharp, the sound of a knife, echoes in the silence of the deserted wood and the man gulps in air once more, before falling to his side and lying still. Blood circles from the back of his neck in an undisturbed puddle.

And then smoke surrounds him. It's thick and instantly, Norris is blind. His throat is already abused from his running so it doesn't take long for great shuddering coughs to assault his body. He waves a hand in front of him to clear his vision. He can hear noises and they concern him. A horse screams, a man yells, a shot is fired and something like a pitiful whimper finishes it all.

By the time the smoke clears, he's safe.

The horse, still with its saddle yet no rider, is trotting around the clearing. It's a beautiful horse, all muscles and no fat. It's ears twitch and its eyes roll, before it bucks and canters off into the forest.

There's a man in the clearing as well, his entrails spilled in front of him. There's no doubt that he's dead and Norris feels faintly sick at the sight of so many bloodied things which should be contained inside the skin. He's on his knees, his head lolling on his chest, blood dripping from his neck as well as his split stomach. Norris can imagine that the organs are warm, a thought he quickly gets rid of.

Another man is slumped against a tree. It's obvious how he died, considering that where his face is, is now just a lump of flesh and blood.

Norris breathes in and pushes himself off the ground.

He decides to look up.

Connor is perched on a branch, looking down at him. He seems calm, collected and faintly bored.

"Mon Dieu," says Norris, "That didn't go as planned."

Connor cracks a rare smile and Norris takes off his beanie to wipe at his forehead. Despite the cold, the sweat is dripping off him in rivers and he's still having a bit of trouble catching his breath. Connor leaps to the ground gracefully.

"Perhaps we underestimated them," concedes the man as he looks around the clearing. Norris notices a discarded ball near him, probably the source of the smoke.

"Considering that we only planned on their being one to fight, we grossly underestimated them."

"I did not know that there would be a horse."

"That was a surprise. You should think about grabbing it if you're heading that way. Beautiful creature."

"Yes and it is quiet as well. But I will accompany you back to the mine."

"Much obliged."

Norris pulls his beanie on again as they head back in its direction. They hear a scream in the distance of the horse and the sound of growling. Well, so much for the horse, he thinks. It quickens his footsteps though as the last thing they need to think about are wild animals.

He's never been a great man for strategies and, despite how much he might admire a man in uniform, a life of planning and preparation certainly isn't for him. He prefers making a decision on where to mine, and then starting his work. If he uncovers anything worthwhile, all the better. If not, well, he tried.

It's a drawback for someone like him, not so for Connor. The world is a better place when you can win a fight and when you have the confidence to do so. Perhaps they did not plan to be run down by 3 bandits in the woods but a person like Connor would only shrug at the inconvenience. Someone like Norris would die from the mistake.

"Wait," says Connor, as he bends down to the body of the man by the tree. Norris feels faintly uncomfortable as his friend reaches into the dead mans pockets and take his coins.

They begin to walk again and Norris is surprised by how much ground he covered in the fight.

It's been too regular, he thinks, that they find their mines occupied by bandits. He's only one man and can hardly be expected to visit all the sites, every day. He isn't surprised that one or two are occupied when he returns. It's the violence of the occupants that is the issue. He could handle a squatter or two but not three armed bandits. Norris feels that he's calling on Connor too regularly. He knows that the man doesn't mind, that he takes the safety of his homestead seriously, but he feels like a bother.

Eventually, the mine's mouth comes into view. They approach it carefully and as quietly as possible. For Norris, it is the equivalent of a child in church (noisy and clumsy), while Connor practically glides over the loose rock and stones as he approaches.

Connor goes in first and Norris is grateful that he does so with such confidence. He finds it difficult to realise how cowardly he really is in such situations.

"Who's there?" Says a deep voice, down one of the side shafts.

Connor and Norris glance at each other, remaining silent. They wait, still, for the person to walk nearer. After 5 minutes, with no footsteps in their direction, they decide to approach the shaft quietly.

"I said, who's there?"

Peering inside, it's a surprise to see a heavy set man bound in the corner with a rag over his eyes. He's well dressed and Norris can see that his shoes are quality made and well shined.

"Who are you?" Says Connor, evenly, as he analyses him. Norris wonders what he's looking at, when he so carefully looks over the man.

"Why the fuck are you asking me that? Don't you even know who you kidnapped? What a couple of fucking amateur shits you all are. If you're going to so royally fuck up my day, you might as well have the decency to know my name."

Norris grins.

"Un moment s'il vows plait, we'll get you untied."

"Untied? Who the fuck are you, you cowardly piece of French shit? Why don't you fight me like real men instead of hiding behind your guns and fancy words?"

"We didn't kidnap you. This is our mine. We've taken it back. Your captors are gone."

"… And you expect me to believe that?."

Connor withdraws a knife (from where, Norris can't tell) and begins to saw at the hemp rope around the mans ankles and hands. The captive tenses at the motion, until his bonds are loosened and unravelled. Finally, the man uses his free hands to rip off his blind fold. He's portly and not young, so when he rises, he does so with a degree of slowness and mutterings. He glances at them and Norris notices that he has a full and prestigious moustache.

"I guess I owe you gents an apology for using such language."

Norris smirks, "Compared to what I would have said in your situation, you spoke well."

The man looks at him and Connor, wearily, "A Frenchie and an Injun. I would not have guessed my day to end like this."

Connor does not seem irritated by the man when he speaks. If anything, it is considerate and kind, "Who are you?"

"Who am I? My kidnappers certainly seemed to know. Must have planned this for a while, the whole operation seemed smooth. Until you both ruined their game, that is. Me? I'm Joseph Brant*, the Deputy Sheriff of Suffolk County. I believe," he says, as he hobbles over to the table where a bottle of whisky stands, "that these here bandits thought themselves smart to take me. A pretty little ransom, they most likely thought."

The man takes a decent swig of the stuff, before slamming it down on the table and taking a seat.

"Now, I trust that you boys have dealt with the… ah, persons of interest?"

Connor nods and really, this is the first time that Norris has been in a conversation that requires careful wording. Besides trying to woo his wife, nothing has ever stopped him from spewing out whatever words he wants. He makes a note to consider his thoughts carefully before speaking.

"No one will miss them," says the sheriff as he pours himself a glass of the whisky and offers them some as well. They both take a seat at the table as well, convenient as it is that there was three bandits and three chairs. "Sure, I might have a widow knocking at my door in the next week for answers but there's plenty of dead men in the rivers these days and they won't be missed."

"Do you know if they are part of a larger gang?" Says Connor.

"No, not those fools. They talked while I was being taken here, rookie mistake. Kept going on about who would deliver the ransom note, or at least write it. That big one, the one with the moustache and the shitty teeth was the leader. Probably could have had a respectably sized gang in a few years, if the rest weren't such fuck ups."

"I thought you were blind-folded the whole time?"

"The initial capture was not quite as well… manoeuvred, as they would have liked. Ended up getting a few yards away initially but they got me anyways. Should have drawn my gun."

"You are safe now, Sheriff."

The man takes a swig of the whisky, wincing and curling his lips at the taste. "So boys, it's time for you to do a bit of explaining. This your mine, is it?"

"I excavated it," says Norris proudly, "But Connor owns the land."

The man's eyebrows raise, "That's quite a big achievement for an Injun. Connor was it?" He says as he holds out his hand and Connor shakes it.

"It is not technically my land. I.. inherited it from the previous owner, who took it from the native people before him. True, we did own much of the land around the manor but I have not bought or sold anything since my arrival. I am more interested in it being cultivated and cared for by good people."

"Noble, as your people tend to be. A lot of fuss about honour and the land, I've noticed. But if it's what you believe in, I can't fault it. And you…," he said, nodding at Norris as his moustache twitched, "…what your story?"

"I am a Miner. I was brought into the Homestead by Connor and I've started my family here. Norris, is my name," he says as his hand is shook.

"Family man, eh?" The Sheriff sighed, "I respect a man with a family. Have one of my own. Wife as old as bark but the best thing to happen in my life. And two young ones, a girl and a boy. Rotten little things, when given the chance, and sweet as sugar all the rest of the time. Not to mention my ma' who was probably around when Christ lived and breathed and will surely last until the apocalypse."

"Are you much respected in your county?" Says Connor and Norris watches him, curiously. It isn't like the man to ask probing questions of strangers, unless there is information to gain.

"I am but I'm at the end of my career. Truthfully, gents, I'd like a little bit less work. Some time to spend with my family. Not to give up work all together, mind you, I enjoy what I do, but I'm not a young buck anymore and my bones feel it. Not to mention the danger. You've probably noticed that I'm not a fan of being kidnapped."

"Do you seek other opportunities?"

Joseph stares at Connor inquisitively, "Are you making a proposal, sir?"

"I am. As you have witnessed, our Homestead is recently much overrun by outlaws and bandits. I take pride in protecting my home but I have… other… duties that require my absence. Either my work suffers from caring for the homestead, or the homestead will suffer from focusing on my work. I am torn and I require the help of someone who is experienced."

"Help to monitor these lands and enforce justice?"

"Yes."

"Interesting."

"I understand that it is not as prestigious as a position you held before. It is a quiet land. But you will have time to enjoy your family, as well as to use your skills in a steady position."

"It's an interesting proposal."

"Do you wish to accept it?"

"I've not got my head right now, truth be told, and I'm not going to accept anything at this moment. But I'll consider your proposal, Connor. At this moment, though, I must return to city and alert my wife of my survival. Perhaps, tonight, I might request Turkey for dinner. It sounds like something to look forward to."

"I will escort you to the city. Norris," says Connor as he turns to him, "check the mine for anything else. The threat has passed, if you are worried."

"I'm not worried," he gulfs, although it's exactly what he is. "It was a pleasure meeting you, sir," he says as he shakes Joseph's hand.

"And you," he replies, "a good bunch you are. It's a shame you had to involve yourself in such a situation as this, although I'm mighty grateful to be alive right now. Who would have guessed it; saved by an indian and a french man. The kids will love this."

"I'm grateful to be alive as well" says Norris, honestly. He remembers that final stare by the gang leader before he died. The mist that fogged in front of his mouth, that feral grin and the gun that nearly killed him with one shot.

"About that, boys. What do you seek to do about the… evidence?"

"The wolves will take care of that," say Connor.

"Wolves, in these parts?"

"Yes." Says Connor firmly, "there is a great pack below this ridge. They have already taken one horse of the bandits."

"Ah, so that's where it is."

"Yes."

"Connor," says Norris, meekly, "Should I wait for you to return?"

"If you take the road from this mine, you will reach an inn within half a mile. The wolves do not patrol there, it is too dangerous when their pelts are worth so much. You will be safe."

"…C'est, bien." He says, nervously. He's aware of how cowardly he might sound but he's not strong enough to fight a full pack of wolves. He doesn't even think he's strong enough to run from them and survive.

Connor leads the man out and Norris watches them go, happy that at least his property has been reclaimed.

~~~~~~~~ AC3~~~~~~~~~~

Norris likes a good pint of ale.

So does Myriam.

He's never lost a drinking competition to a woman before and the minute he did, he knew that he'd met his soulmate. It's not that he craves disappointment and defeat but he likes to have someone around who appreciates the perfect art of getting drunk.

So, as usual, they're sitting in the inn on a weekday night and having a sip or two of ale as they make pleasant small talk.

They're nearly alone in the room as Warren is with his family, which is true of most other members of their village. He can tell that Myriam is upset that she isn't with child yet. The delay makes her nervous and he's noticed that her nails are torn to the base and the skin around them is dog-eared and chewed. His wife is worried and he doesn't know what to do, except spend as much time with her as possible and remind her that she's loved.

Corrine is sweeping in the corner and smiles as Connor walks in.

"Ah, love, can I get you anything?" She says as she leans on her broom.

A man follows him in and Norris is struck by his memories of that glorious moustache and the foul mouth. Behind him, a woman who is neither pretty nor ugly, follows. Two children scamper in behind them.

"Perhaps you can get our newest resident a meal," says Connor as he gestures at Joseph and his family.

Corrine smiles, obviously pleased at the sight of new business. She nods at Oliver, who stopes his cleaning of the bar bench and moves to the back room where the kitchen is.

"Right away. And who will I be servin' today?"

"Joseph, is the name," says the big man as he sits. When he does so, his big round belly spills in front of him. His wife smiles at Corrine but doesn't say a word, obviously a quiet one.

Norris looks over at Connor, who, first the first time, looks rather pleased with himself. He gestures at the man, who takes a seat at their table as he pushes back his hood. He's always surprised by the mohawk underneath it. Often, he forgets the native background of his friend.

"This is your doing, am I right?" He says.

Connor smiles as he sneaks a side long glance at Joseph and his family.

"You know, Connor," says Myriam, thoughtfully. "There's a few children in the Homestead now."

It's a simple statement but Connor cocks his head and Norris can't resist placing a hand on her thigh, underneath the table. He wants to reassure her that it will be alright, that they are just taking a bit longer than everyone else but that's fine.

"I was thinking," she continues, "what are you going to do when they grow up?"

"What do you mean?" Says Connor in reply.

"There will not be time for Ellen to teach her daughter if she is running a business. Nor should some people have that duty when they can't even read. Who will teach the children?"

Connor frowns. "I do not know. I did not think of that. In my childhood, I learned from my elders and mother. We did not have set teachers as you did."

"It's just a thought," she says, as she drinks from her tankard once more.

"It's a good point."

Norris looks over at the new family as he thinks.

Who will teach his children?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ AC3 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

*Although his position in this story is unrelated to the actual Joseph Brant, I'm quite a fan of the man whose name I've stolen. He was an avid supporter of Native American rights in the American Revolutionary war and has a very similar history to our dear Connor. Look him up, it's a great read and a great man to learn about. As far as the Deputy Sheriff part goes, it's just part of my story plan, there is no correlation between Joseph and the position I've cast him in.

**AN: **Another chapter done! I hope you enjoyed Joseph. I rather liked writing him. It's all good and well to have beautiful characters but I love to write a flawed, bad mouthed and average man. It can be a lot of fun. Tell me what you think though. I feel like I'm really developing the Homestead at this point and I'll write these as if they are continuing in a flowing time line. If I break from this forward running story, I'll let you all know by setting up the time and the context.

Thanks for reading and please review!


	6. Terry

**The Homestead **

**AN: **Trigger Warnings! 

WARNING, this chapter has abuse. It's a hard subject to approach, I know, but I feel that it is one that would occur quite frequently back then. I tried not to make anyone seem particularly villainous or good but to create a chapter that would reflect something very common and expected in marriage. Back then, there wouldn't have been the resources to deal with anger issues or to live without some level of insecurity. I hope I've represented the characters well. More than anything, I really feel like I need feedback from you guys. I feel like a lot of people enjoy the action or adventure and yet my favourite parts are the character development. I don't know what direction to take this and the lack of an action plan is making me stagnate in my writing. So please, if you review, drop a few words about how you'd like to see this story move or flow!

Thanks for reading and apologies for the late update. I am so tired that my head might explode.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ AC3 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Where were you?"

The door shuts behind Diana as she stares at him. She's so defiant, he can see her resolve only strengthen, although her breathing seems to quicken. And what a sight he must be. He's dirty from his day of work and he's been nursing an ale for an hour or so. He doesn't expect much from his wife but he expects food on the table when he gets home.

"At work," she says, as she takes off her blood stained apron and folds it over the chair in front of him. She looks tired and stressed but he doesn't care because she put herself in that position. She doesn't have to work, that wasn't her purpose as his wife.

"Where's my dinner?"

"I'll make it now."

"I was hungry an hour ago."

She glares at him and he can see the anger come off her in waves. But he's the one who should be angry. He's the only man in town with a woman like Diana and he knows it. She's surly and talks back to him and he's got no control over her at all.

It shames him. His father wouldn't be happy to see his lack of control over his woman.

"You're my wife, you make the food," he says, as he lets out a burp. The ale sits in his stomach and makes him feel sick. He's tired and hungry and his woman is talking back to him.

"And, as I just said, I'll make it now."

He's angry and it flares in his chest. He wants to throw something, maybe a chair. But he doesn't say anything, he'd rather just watch her squirm. She needs to know that it's not okay, that he's the man of the house. She should be back before he is and dinner should be her biggest priority. He makes the money for her skirts and her bed. He makes the money that means she doesn't starve. Where's the appreciation?

"Terry," she says, warily, and she comes over to him, to kiss him. He allows her bend and kiss his lips and he looks into her eyes with such hatred and anger that she steps back. "I'm doing the best I can," she says.

He wants to hurt her. He can't help himself. But she looks in his eyes with such gentleness that he can't bear to grab her wrist and to squeeze it. It would be so easy to break the bones, to hold onto that arm until she's begging him to release it.

Maybe she sees his hatred because she steps back a pace and watches him. She waiting for him to make the next move. He could so easily teach her a lesson.

He throws his drink at the wall and it's not glass so it only causes a great crack of sound, before it falls to the ground and rolls under the table.

Diana flinches, watching him like a doe that's staring down a wolf. He topples his chair and it breaks as it falls to the ground.

"Fuck." He says, and she goes as still as a statue. He pushes her out of the way as he moves around her and she slams against the iron stove. He feels instantly regretful but he just needs to leave, before he does something worse. Something that he will really regret.

He slams the door as he leaves the cabin.

He's so angry. So angry that he doesn't know what to do. It physically hurts him to be so angry and his head throbs. No one provokes him like Diana. She doesn't even have to be in his range of sight for him to get pissed off and near bubbling point.

He strides in the direction of the forest, wiping his mouth to get rid of the residual sweat and ale that coats his top lip. His body is drawn as tightly as a bow-string that's ready to be released and the blood is pumping furiously through his veins.

All he can think of are her eyes as they stare at him with such a betrayed look. She probably thought that one day she'd marry a gentle man, a man who would appreciate her. It isn't that he doesn't love her, that he doesn't desire every part of her. But he can't control his anger. It builds and builds and then he does things that he regrets, actions that hurt the woman who he loves.

He swears as he talks and walks through the forest. The river is suddenly in front of him and he follows it a ways, walking in a random direction and still feeling the anger boil over him like a cauldron of lava.

Finally, he stops.

He's reached a waterfall and it thunders in front of him. It seems so furious and never ending in its strength and somehow, he doesn't feel as angry and annoyed. His mind goes blank and he simply watches it for a moment.

The anger abates after a moment and he is left, slightly shaken, staring at the water. The stars glitter in the waters reflection and he stares at the rippling surface with a deep melancholy.

It takes him a while to notice that he isn't alone.

That there's movement to the side of the waterfall, in a patch of trees. He frowns, watching the movement that is hardly a rustle in the wood. Walking towards it, he steps on the great boulders that stick out of the water, knowing that his heavy footsteps are quietened by the thunderous roar of the water. The rocks are moss-ridden and slippery so he crouches as he walks towards the moving shadow.

It's Connor and he's lying on his back, looking up at the sky. One leg is thrown over the other and he is bouncing it absentmindedly as he stares vacantly. He seems comfortable in the grass with the full moon that is shining down on them.

The man notices him for the first time and turns his head his way. He doesn't smile, nor raise an eyebrow at his presence. He simply acknowledges that he is standing there and turns back to his sight seeing.

Terry walks over to him.

"Connor," he says, as a greeting.

The man nods, nothing but silence coming from him.

"What are you out here for?" he asks, after a while. He feels awkward, standing as he is next to the man who's sprawled on his back.

"I'm thinking," says Connor. "What about you?"

"Hm," he says, wiping a hand over his mouth as he looks away, "Same. I needed to go for a walk."

"What happened?" Asks the man, understanding instantly that Terry was walking for a reason.

"Nothing."

"Okay."

"Well, actually… the wife…"

"Problems?"

"Yeah."

"What happened?"

He doesn't answer, if anything, he turns away from the man and looks down at the river again. He can feel Connor's eyes as they bore into his back. It's weird, he feels comfortable enough to talk to the man about anything that's on his mind but he's equally aware of how little he knows of him. He wouldn't mind if he unleashed his story and Connor unleashed his in return. But he knows that the response will be limited and carefully worded.

"Why aren't you married?" He asks, suddenly. He turns back to the man who has stopped jiggling his leg and is now watching him, with one eyebrow raised.

"Why?"

"Just curious."

"Hm. Not sure, really."

"Is it not something that your people…. do?"

The man laughs, "We commit to each other, if that is what you mean. Truthfully, I'm too busy to think of that."

"I've heard that excuse before…"

"How often have you seen me at the Manor?"

"Not very often."

"I doubt any woman would be happy with that arrangement."

"I don't know. There's plenty of women who get married for the status and security but would prefer to be left to their own devices."

"Name one."

"Good point."

"It's bad enough with Achilles expectations looming over me. I don't need you telling me as well."

"He wanted you to get married?"

"Of course. It was the only thing that made him happy, when he was young."

"Sorry about that… about him."

There is silence as Connor turns back to the sky and Terry stares up at the sky again. His lets his fingers dig deeply into the earth as he sits and stares at the wonders of the sky. It occurs to him that he had been angry, just minutes ago.

"Single but married would be perfect," he says, with a melancholy sigh.

"What does that mean?"

"I could do without the nagging. It'd be great to be married but without all the bullshit and obligation around it."

"Is this about Diana?"

He doesn't answer.

"Did something happen?"

"Nothing serious…"

"But something did happen?"

"It's the same old shit, really. Whatever happened to the dutiful wife? There's never any food around and she comes in and out at all times. I should be the one doing that. She should be left guessing by me, not the other way around."

"Are you not with her working with Dr Lyle?"

"I don't fucking care about her having a job but if that cocksucker lays one hand on her, I'll tear off his fingers one by one."

The man sits up at his words and stares at him, "You think she is being unfaithful?"

"What would you think? With a husband like me, she'd be mad not to look at other men. After the way I treat her…"

"You treat her badly?"

"Not well."

"Why?"

"I.. don't know," he admits truthfully. He had never really thought about why he doesn't treat her well. Perhaps it's because she's too kind, too forgiving. It's so easy to take advantage of and to manipulate. But then, sometimes he feels that she pokes and prods him into anger, like a bear in a pen being hit with a stick.

"In my tribe, when a man does wrong, he admits it." Says Connor, defiantly.

"You think I should apologise?"

"I think you should."

He sighs, knowing that Connor speaks the truth. His mind is resisting the thought and he is wanting so badly to shy away from how terribly he has treated his wife over the years. He can't deny that he loves her.

He always would.

~~~~~~~~~~ AC3 ~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Where were you?"

"Out," he says, as he slides the door open. He's no longer angry and perhaps she can see that on his face. He can see that she's already slid into her defiant stance and expression, a natural reaction to his presence in the room.

"I was worried."

"I'm sorry."

"You're sorry?"

"Yes."

"Did something happen to you?"

"No, why?"

"You don't usually apologise… never mind. Dinner's ready."

"Thanks."

"Thank you? Terry, since when do you say thank you?"

"Since I realised what a right piece of trash I've been."

Diana looks at him, an eyebrow raised. He can tell that she is confused and not expecting the pleasant front that he has put up. He looks down at the table, where a bowl of stew is sitting and a pint of ale is ready for him. His stomach complains loudly and he sits down hurriedly to satisfy the noises.

"It's good."

"I'm glad," she says, still watching him.

He finishes, licking the spoon one last time before placing it in the bowl. She's still watching him, wearily.

"Come here," he says, gesturing to his lap.

She saunters over and the curve of her hips as she walks reminds him of when he first met her. He can imagine her pale skin underneath the bodice, her surprising flexibility. He wraps an arm around her as she sits on his lap and turns her face to his. They kiss, slowly at first, but then with a frenzy that is lust filled and all consuming. He can feel his body responding to hers and he lifts his hand under the copious layers she wears to run a hand up her thigh.

"No, Terry," she says, softly, "Not tonight."

"Hm?" He mumbles out as he firmly holds her thigh in his grasp.

"It's my time… of the month."

He doesn't answer, only deepens his kiss as he pulls her to him and holds her firmly. He needs satisfaction and he needs it quickly.

"No, Terry. I said get off me." She says as she uses her forearms to push against his chest.

After a few more attempts, she pulls herself from his grasp and stands next to him, staring at him angrily.

"I told you no."

"Fuck you, Diana. It's always your bloody time."

"I can't help it. Stop being such a bastard." She says, her face red from passion and anger.

The anger is back in his chest and it flares deeply and with a strength that only comes occasionally. He looks away, his expression matching his feelings as he clenches his fist and mutters curses under his breath.

Diana backs away and begins to clear up the table.

He turns away from her, defiantly.

The anger flares.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ AC3 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**AN: **So I hoped you enjoyed this. I don't want Terry to be seen as a villain. More than anything, perhaps as a man that is incapable of helping himself. It would be hard back then to deal with addiction, or anger or mental illness. Especially since the stigma of the issues would mean that support would be non-existent. Anyways, I hope you enjoyed and make sure you tell me if you did!


	7. Kidnapped 1

**The Homestead**

**Warnings for Torture.**

**AN: **Yes, torture. And yes, it's with dear little Connor. First things first though, I really want to thank you guys for the reviews and suggestions. Although perhaps I did not apply them directly to the story, there seemed to be a common overriding theme, which was, do a series. Simple enough, I think. I liked the idea of a few continuous chapters. A mini-plot line, if you will. So that's what I'm doing now. It will hopefully merge together the previous character development chapters that I've done. Keep in mind though, that once this series is complete, I've still got a few ideas for character development. I really liked the suggestion of doing something on the sea so that will definitely be in my stories, whether that is in this series or a one-shot will be something you'll have to see! (Sorry for that little cliffhanger haha)

Remember to review and tell me your thoughts!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ AC3 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He shudders from the pain.

His whole body shakes and the force of the punch makes his neck ache as his head lolls onto his chest. Spit dribbles from his mouth, mingled with blood and his head throbs. The ropes around his body are tight and they make his stomach feel sick from their pressure, although perhaps that is from shock.

He can hardly see through the sweat, blood and dizziness that clouds his vision. In front of him though, the man sneers, draws a hand over his forehead and brings his fist around once more to incapacitate him completely. At each swing, the man lazily daps at his knuckles with an embroidered hand-kerchief, eternally fixing his hair at the violent movements.

But Connor is not unconscious, even though he wishes he is. He can see that the man is pacing now, in front of him and he seems frustrated. The sight makes Connor feel satisfied. Sure, he might be tied to pole in the middle of an isolated cabin and pulverised beyond any rationality, but he still doesn't seem as irritated as the man in front of him.

"I am a kind man, Mr. Kenway. I believe that I am gracious man," he says as he walks in front of Connor, "… but you are testing me to my limits."

Connor spits and, instead of the blob landing neatly in front of him as a display of his defiance, it simply stains his own clothes and gets on his chin.

Nothing seems to be going his way tonight.

"Disgusting. A savage. Can you not see why I so kindly wish to relieve you of this responsibility? I'm here to help, not to harm."

"I will kill you."

"So little gratitude and after all that I have offered you. Think of how many chances I have given you at this point. To reiterate, I can give you coins, more than you have probably ever seen? Would that entice you?"

"I swear, I will kill you."

"Stop being so dramatic. I am hardly encouraging a holocaust or an invasion. All you need to do, Mr Kenway, is relinquish control of your land. That's it. That's all. Just give me the land and I'll let you go right now."

"You will not die of old age, I will make sure of that."

"So begins another round of negotiations," says the man as he sighs, "… boys, please start the conversation for me."

Two burly men, who had been leaning against the wall saunter over to him. They are so stereotypically awful that it makes Connor nearly chuckle. Of course the men who are going to torture him look like they've stepped right out a prison. Tattoos, rolled up sleeves, too much body hair; he's almost bored of the same old generic brutes. They even crack their knuckles as they look down at him with matching sneers.

The punches take the breath out of him. He's almost relieved when they leave his face and begin their assault on his body. When they don't stop and his ribs nearly crack, he does begin to regret his relief.

"Who knows what your father was thinking when he tried to work _with _you. A Templar and an Assassin? Why, it's simply absurd. Watch that you don't kill him boys."

"I-I lear-"

He stopped as another punch cut off his answer.

"Stop, you fools. He was trying to speak."

"I learned t-that soon enough.." he says, wheezing.

"What? That Templars and Assassins are like cats and dogs? Or, more like that we are lions and you are mutts?"

He doesn't respond.

"It's simply negligent. He knew, Connor, he knew that you had thousands of acres to your name, the beginnings of a settlement, and he simply allowed that to flourish. How many caravans have left your manors? How many mines have been dug? To think of all that wealth and bounty, contributing to _your _cause… why, it disgusts me."

"Why did you…" he gathers his breath, "why did you wait for so long then? T-To take it from me?"

"You know, as much as I would love to go from continent to continent in a few days, that method of travel does not exist. Once reports starting to filter back to the motherland, intelligence gathered and myself shipped out, you wouldn't believe how many months had passed. And then I had to see what you had done for myself. It all does add up, you know."

"You Templars… are so…" he struggled for words, "slow."

"I hardly think you're in a position to judge right now, Mr Kenway. After all, we may take our time but we certainly do achieve our intended results."

"Like my father?"

He grins, the foam and blood of his mouth escaping. He really wished someone had a towel that he could use.

"Enough of that, Mr Kenway. Your father was a great man, in his younger days. Perhaps he later erred and fell from logic and reason but he is to be respected. For a native, though, you seem quite attached to this little white settlement you've created. But, nether less, it shall be mine shortly. You can deny that all you want but, whether I have to kill you or convince you, your manor and land will be mine."

"Why keep me alive?" He asks, honestly confused at why he still breaths.

"All things considered, your town seems to have a very unnatural attachment to you. I'd rather have you alive and able to demonstrate your commitment to my cause, then dead and heroic. There's nothing worse than a mystery. It creates heroes so quickly."

"You will never win their trust."

"Oh, you are wrong. So very wrong, Mr. Kenway. And I'll prove that to you. It will be most satisfying to see, when they give up on you. At the end, they are all terrified of your past, of your blood. They expect a native to betray them. It is the way of their upbringing and their values. While you continue to please them, they continue to believe in you. But when you hand over the deeds, and they watch your betrayal, they will think nothing of it. They will expect it, as they always have."

"You are wrong."

"We will see. We surely will see," says the man. Connor is so furious that it increases his headache. He wishes to kill the man, to see his blood as it drips from him. "Ah, there is still fire in you yet. We will relieve that from you. Don't worry, all will be fine soon. You will have enough to retire on and I will have your lands, your people and your manor. It is an arrangement that works for all, do you not think?"

The blows reign down on him once more and he tries not to cry out but the pain is more intense than he has ever felt. Every joint in his body throbs and his head swims dangerously.

His resolve is strong though. He will not betray his people.

Not again.

"And, Mr Kenway, if you don't see the error of your ways, you will pay most dearly for it."

"Death does not scare me."

"As an Assassin, it is your close friend, I am sure. But what about the pain of your villagers? What about their deaths?"

"You-"

"What if, for your stubbornness, they paid most dearly. Patience, Terry, not the mention little Hunter? What if all of them disappeared?"

"You.. you wouldn't get away with it?"

"Oh, really? Like you haven't got away with killings hundreds in your time? Like the Templars haven't got away with killing thousands all over the world, every year? Who would bat an eye at their deaths? Who would see them and mourn? No one of importance. They are worth coin to me but I am a man of impulses, too. If you continue to be so stubborn, to disregard my kindness and wisdom, I will go to all lengths of the world to see you punished."

"Y-you're mad."

"No, Mr. Kenway. I am just doing my job."

He walks away from Connor, adjusting his coat as he prepares to leave the cabin. Stopping before the door, he turns back to the man, who is glaring at him. Connor manages to struggle out his last barb, "You can not keep me here forever."

"Not forever, no. But I will be keeping you here for a few weeks. You are familiar with physical pain, or injuries and accidents. But what about hunger? What about thirst? I will break you and I have all the time in the world. In the meantime, I am going to settle into the Davenport Homestead. I'm sure you have plenty of arms that could be passed to my boys. And I need to gain their trust, after all, if they're going to create a prosperous town for me."

"They won't accept you."

The man laughs, "Considering that they accepted you - the half breed mutt that you are - I hardly think I will have a problem."

He slams the door, leaving Connor alone with the two brutes.

They smile.

Connor braces himself.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ AC3 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"And who are you, luv?"

"Me? Oh, that's kind of you to ask. I'm Alistair Kenway. I'm Connor's Uncle."

"His Uncle? I didn't know he had an uncle?"

He laughs and the carefree sound makes Corrine smile. She always enjoys a kind stranger.

"In truth, he does not know me very well. I am from his father's side. A side, I think, that he would prefer to forget."

"Oh, so sad. He does have a hard past, doesn't he?"

"He does. But that is why I am here. My faith in God, my trust in his plan and his creations has shown me that, while Connor may be uncouth and unlearned, he is still my blood. It is time for me to know him, as I know my sisters and brothers."

"So kind, sir. Oh, and pardon me, sir, but I'm Corrine and this is my husband Oliver. We own this establishment."

"A fine business, I can see."

"All thanks to Connor," interjected Oliver as he poured the man a pint, "this one's on me."

"That's very generous. What have I done to deserve this kindness?"

"We would extend this welcome to all Connor's relatives. He has done a good thing by bringing us here. We owe him many more drinks than I can count."

"He certainly has a good standing in this town," says the man as he removes his hat and places it on the bar top in front of him. Corrine can see that he is lean and, despite his very english and heavy clothing, he is fit and lean. He is older than Connor, perhaps mid thirties or forties, with a well trimmed moustache, beard and high, angular cheek bones. He is a kind man, she believes, and yet… something about him gives her warning bells.

"He built it, from the bottom up," says Lance, this time without his usual tool belt around his waist. She has a great respect for Lance, especially since all the furniture her guests sit on was made by himself. "Every house you see, even the church, has his sweat and skill in them. A better man, I have not met."

"A glowing review," says the man. "And what of his business? He has given me permission to lodge in his manor until he returns on business but I have not had the time to enquire after his pursuits. How did he come to own such a house?"

"I bet you were expecting to live in a stick hut, weren't you?" Says Terry, laughing. Godfrey elbows him in the side at the quip and the man spills his drink down his shirt. The man drops the tankard heavily but luckily, doesn't raise his fits. His face is red though and it's obvious that he is suppressing anger. Corrine nearly sighs in relief.

Alistair appears to blush but to Corrine, the expression seems almost forced, "Truthfully, I did not expect such grand lodgings."

"Well," says Oliver, "Connor coordinates our trade and brings in new talent. He resolves our complaints, helps us when we need it. His income, I believe, is largely from Achilles, who would have left a substantial sum, if his residence was anything to go by. And trade wagons would fetch a good profit, considering that the labour of finding the trade items is done by himself."

"Ah, he seems rather independent. An entrepreneur in the new land."

"Yes. And yourself, what do you do?"

"Myself? Oh, I come from Whitby, it is small seafaring town in the motherland. We make a good living in trading coal with the northern towns. We own a few sturdy ships but nothing too grand."

"Will you be staying in Davenport, Alistair?"

"It depends, I guess. I must first talk to Connor. We have talked by mail but in person, things may go very differently." The man drains the rest of his ale that he had been sipping on, before standing and propping his hat on his head. In his expensive clothes. he seemed almost regal. "Thank you for your hospitality," she smiles as he continues, "Especially since I am from a background that has been giving you all grief in recent years. To welcome me so readily is a true honour. But I must retire, it has been a long journey. Thank you again, all of you."

She smiles, nodding politely as he walks to the door and leaves the inn. She raises an eyebrow at Oliver, meaningfully, and he shrugs.

"I don't trust him," said Myriam, who is sitting in the corner. Corrine gives a start, not even realising that she had been inside with them. She has the same secretive manner to herself that Connor does and Corrine doesn't enjoy it. She has begun to appreciate a good, clumsy person.

"He has only just arrived," she says, admonishingly.

"I feel sick just thinking of his flowery language," she says, drinking from her own tankard. She's surprised that Norris was so taken with her, Corrine thinks that she is rather manly in her ways.

"He was just being kind."

"It does seem a bit out of character," says Lance, slowly, "for Connor to not greet his uncle personally. It is not like him to favour business over family. Especially with a past like his."

"We know less of Connor than we think," she says. "Just because he wasn't cursing and brawling, doesn't make him suspicious."

"No, but burning Achilles portrait does," says Myriam, matter-of-factly.

"What's this?" Says Lance, turning to her, with surpass.

"Last night, I wanted to speak to Connor about the wolf problem we've been having. It's been pretty bad around my area and I wanted to plan a strategy with him. I don't usually just walk to his house, I prefer the tree tops and I usually enter by the second story. I was about to jump in to the clearing but then I saw that guy, in the back. A fire had been made and he was cutting up the portrait of Achilles that Connor has over his mantle, the one with his wife and his kid in it. Anyways, eventually he just throws it into the fire and then, when it's all gone, just walks back inside, like nothing had happened."

"Why didn't you tell us this earlier?"

"I didn't know what to do. But I've been keeping my eye on the place all night. That's why I'm here, I've been following him."

"Remind me not to piss you off," says Terry as he takes a swig. She glares at him as she reclines in her chair further.

Oliver glances around the bar, "When did you all last see Connor?"

"Two nights ago," says Terry. "He was by the river. We got to talking."

"What were you talking to him about?" Says Godfrey, staring at his friend.

"Nothin'."

"Okay," says Oliver, "So we saw him two nights ago and now… nothing. And his uncle has turned up, who allegedly is burning his possessions."

The bar is silent as they consider the situation. Corrine can see that they are all holding back, after all, it's quite within Connor's character to disappear for months or days at a time. It's Myriam's news that has shocked them. That, and the bad feeling in her gut as she thinks of Alistair's satisfaction at their kindness. She feels almost played by him, as if she has completed a very intricate part in a dance.

"We'll keep an eye on him," say Oliver. "Anything else odd, you tell us. I'll spread the word to the other villagers of the news. If there's something up that's suspicious, I want us to all be ready. But keep in mind, friends, we need more than just a burning picture to do something rash. He could simply be a kind relative."

"My ass, he is," says Myriam, darkly.

Corrine doesn't agree with her language but she agrees with the sentiment.

Something feels off.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ AC3 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**AN: **This is only part one of the series that I'm doing. So, as you can see, suspicions are on the rise. It seems that Alistair type-casted the villagers as being naive, which, in my opinion, was a very silly mistake to make. I hope you like him as a character. I imagine him to be quite suave, as with most Templars. To do what they must, there is a level of charm and manipulation that needs to be present. And what did Connor think, that they would simply leave him alone? No, it's pay-back time!

As always, let me know your thoughts!


	8. Kidnapped 2

**The Homestead**

**Disclaimer: **Of course I don't anything.

**AN: **

_First on the agenda:_ I AM SO SORRY. I left that giant cliffhanger last chapter and then just disappeared into the wind. I'm such a jerk, I'm really sorry! My excuses follow: work, friends, Christmas, family, holiday and finally general laziness. If it wasn't for your amazingly kind words and excessively generous reviews, I'd be hopeless! Those who study and work will hopefully understand how difficult it can be to get the motivation to write. After 40 something hours of computer work, sometimes writing on laptop is just torture!

_Second on the agenda:_ some words of praise for my reviewers!

**Lyndwyn:** thank you for sending that lovely PM with your words of encouragement. It truly gave me the motivation to write this next part!

**AssassinEzioAuditore**: I'd love to see the finished result of you hanging this story on the wall in silver. How big is your house to accommodate for that?! Haha wonderful review!

**Madilla1010:** The lovely reviewer who reviewed every chapter of my story. That shows commitment! That was excellent to receive while bored at work and hating life!

And of course, thank you all other reviewers who took the time to read this story and then to also comment on it afterwards. I can't express how much your kind words mean to me and how much of a thrill they gave me to read.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ AC3 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ellen tries to struggle down the bile in her throat as she leans over. She tucks her undergarments to the bottom of her washing pile, letting her dress cover them from sight.

"So, Mr….?"

"Mr. Kenway," says the man, slightly irritated. She knows his name, of course, but she liked to see the way he squirmed at her forgetfulness.

"- Mr. Kenway, what can I do for you?"

"A lot, I presume."

"A lot?"

"It depends on how… generous you can be."

"I'm not generous Mr. Kenway," she says, as she picks up her washing basket. The muscles in her arms stand taught at the action and she fixes him with a blank stare. If he's trying to flirt with her, he's doing a very poor job of it.

She doesn't have time for this.

"I beg to differ. There are naught but excellent words for your charity in the town."

She sighs, "Are you trying to get a discount?"

"Certainly not," says Alistair and he has the dignity to at least look affronted and slightly ruffled. She imagines him as a giant peacock, his feathers withdrawn as she rips down his suave words. "I was simply giving credit where credit is due."

"Much obliged," she says, lazily looking away from the man to check on her daughter who is playing down the road.

"I have seen your latest garment, "he says, "it is an excellently designed piece."

"It is," she says and despite her irritation at the man, she feels a measure of pride at its design. It cost her a pretty penny for gold thread and quite a bit of courage to make something so lavish in an area that covets practical designs.

"You must have quite the reputation."

"I am well known for good work, I suppose. But a reputation takes time to build."

"That is true. And your daughter, will she inherit the business?"

Ellen squints against the light, her arm shaking slightly at the heavy weight of the basket, "I hardly see why that is your concern."

"I did not mean to offend or pry," there is a pause in the conversation and she notices him grip his walking stick tightly, "would you care to accompany me for a walk?"

He hardly looks clothed for a walk, at least one that gets the blood moving. The weather is steamy and yet his jacket is buttoned to his neck. She notices that he's standing as she imagines a ballerina to stand, all ass and chest.

"No. I'm busy," she says.

A thought occurs to her that if Myriam is overreacting, she probably just offended the only known family of Connor. The thought stops her and she wonders for a moment, just how much she trusts the man in front of her.

"Ah, I see," he says, as he places his perfect hat on his perfect head. "May I call on you tomorrow?"

"Do what you like," she says, as she leans against the doorway, elbows it open and tries to manoeuvre her washing in the doorframe that hardly accommodates for its width.

"Then I shall call on you tomorrow," he says with a stiff bow.

She raises her eyebrow as he turns and walks off in the direction of the bridge. Her chest heaves as she pushes the washing basket in once more and dumps it on the table.

She stares at it, a frown forming on her face as she considers the man. The perfect hair, the elegant outfit and the courteous manners.

And then she remembers the way his hand clenched at her words, how his knuckles went white and then a mottled red. She thinks of his posture and how suited it would be to not just a ballerina, but to a dueller.

She stares out of the window, deep in thought.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ AC3 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Absolutely not."

"Please?"

"No!"

"But who else will do it?"

"You, for starters," she says as she stares angrily at Myriam. Norris sits behind them, his leg propped on his knee, one hand protectively holding his pint of ale.

"Me? Just to remind you, I'm not only married but I've been completely ignored by the man. I'd do more harm then I would staying out it. He evidently has taken his pick."

"I think you're beautiful," says Norris. "He's mad for not trying to seduce you."

"Shut up you oaf. So what about it, Ellen? Are you going to do it?"

"I have a daughter."

"Your point?"

"What if something happens to me?"

Myriam smirks, "I'm not sure what you're planning on doing when he comes knocking but I'm not asking for you to strip naked and hand him a knife. Just be pleasant. Kind."

"I don't see why you can't do some other distraction."

"Because that takes time to plan, something we might not have," says Lance.

A hush falls over the room as Ellen looks from neighbour to neighbour. They are all standing rigidly, with crossed arms and wary expressions.

She has to remind herself that Connor might not be on business and that he might be in dire need of their help. She thinks of him and his eyes. She thinks of how little he judged her, despite the child at her hip and the drunkard for a husband. She breathes in, her corset pushing painfully at her breasts at the action.

"Okay. How much time will you need?"

"Not long. I don't think… maybe half an hour at the most. I'm going in and out as quick as I can."

"What if he doesn't show up?"

"He will."

"I didn't treat him very well today," she admitted.

"He will try, at least once more. If he's trying to take over the homestead, he won't have time to make good with us all individually. The easiest way to make a town trust you is to marry one of their women."

"How do you know that?" Said Ellen, curiously.

Myriam looks uncomfortable for a moment, her gaze pointedly turning away from her husbands, "My sisters weren't as lucky as I am," she shook her head, as if dispersing a memory, "And a man can't ignore a challenge."

"So how do I signal to you?"

"Send your daughter to me. I'll be here, it's only a short walk to the manor and by trees it's even quicker. I can be in and out in no time."

Ellen ponders for a moment, trying to ignore the butterflies in her stomach or the tight feeling in her chest. She hasn't been pursued since the horrible attempt her husband had made. She isn't sure if she's ready to jump back into a game of fluttering eyelashes and coy words.

"Okay," she says, thinking of Connor once more and his deep, almost black eyes. "But only for a little bit."

"That's all I need," says Myriam as she trades a pleased expression with most of the bar.

"So what do I talk about with him?"

"Mundane stuff. The weather, your business. Perhaps his clothes. Something light. If he gives you a signal though, some sort of a clue about Connor, just keep on asking questions."

"What if you find nothing?"'

"Then we'll go to plan B."

"What's plan B?"

Myriam grins and the expression is truly terrifying in its savagery. Ellen can imagine her being at ease with animals and her gun. Her smile seems to cut through air.

"Plan B comes after Plan A."

Ellen nods, knowingly.

~~~~~~~~~ AC3 ~~~~~~~~~~~~

"How are you this afternoon?" Says Alistair pleasantly.

Ellen smiles thinly, hoping that her expression doesn't betray her irritation at the man. He's dressed, once again, in rich fabrics, multiple layers and expensively ruffled material. It's completely unpractical for both the climate and the homestead. To her, it screams of importance and wealth, something that the man was no doubt wanting to emphasise. Nobody could imagine him as a farmer or a labourer. He is a noble, through and through.

"I'm well," she says, as pleasantly as possible. "And how are you, Mr Kenway?"

He seems surprised at her gentle tone, but he composes himself quickly, "Very well. This air here is fresh and clean. I feel much healthier than I did in London."

"London?" She says, her interest peaked slightly.

"Yes, it is a silly town. But come, will you walk with me today?"

"Only for a short while," she says and feeling a pleasant tingle at the eyebrow he raises. She likes being spontaneous and the way his eyes rakes over her makes her feel important.

"Hun," she says, as she calls for her daughter. Her little girl pokes her head around the door of the house, her face inquisitive. "Go visit Myriam while I'm gone."

"Do I have to?" She says as she rolls her eyes.

"Yes," says Ellen firmly. "And don't dawdle on your way there."

"Okay. Fine," she says morosely, as she heads in the direction of the inn.

He waits for her to smooth down her skirts, before heading to a rough path to the side of their path, that winds to the river and follows its gently. She pointedly ignores the arm that he offers her, but she matches his pace as they walk.

"My family hails from Whitby but in truth, I was deceitful before of their successes. We have profited much and have expanded past the small town and its minimal resources. When needed, I travel to London and live in a small apartment, so that I can better devise strategies and discuss a merger with a local business."

"That must be exciting," she says, keeping her eyes ahead as they walk. The sun flares through the leaves like golden rays, broken only by the flight of a bird or the rustling of the wind. There is a peacefulness to the forest, a quiet that descends in the afternoon as the sun creeps towards the horizon.

"It was. But it was tiring as well. It is a hard journey to London and there is never any rest once I arrive. Trivial or large, everything must be addressed and, after making a few chosen social appearances, there is hardly time to stroll in the park or sit in a café."

"Social appearances? The parties of London are famed for their extravagance."

He smiles, staring off as if in remembrance, "They are enjoyable events. The guests sometimes very thinly walk the line of being proper and vulgar."

"Are there any stories that you care to share?"

"Not even on my deathbed," he says, with a wry grin.

"So," she says, as a pause descends over them. She wonders how long it would take Myriam to snoop around in the house. She has to forcibly remind herself of why they are walking through the forest. "Why are you in Davenport then?"

"Connor, truthfully," he says, not missing a beat. "He is an interesting young man and I wished to know more of him. And the Americas holds a certain fascination to the British. It has always been my dream to visit this land. Perhaps I could have timed my arrival better. The war has made travelling difficult and not all have been friendly to me as a result of my heritage."

"And when Connor returns, what is your plan?"

"My plan? I was hoping to take it as it is."

"Even if he does not wish for you to stay?"

Alistair stops walking, his eyes dark as he looks at her, "And why would you think he would react that way?"

She tries to control her breathing, "I was just curious."

"I see," he says, his eyes narrowing. They continue walking, the merry bubbling of the stream complimenting the singing birds pleasantly. She walks ahead of him slightly but she can feel his gaze as it bores into her back.

"Enough of me though," he says, after a pause. "What of you? What is your history?"

"Mine? Hm, it's quite boring really. I moved here with my daughter and we've been living here ever since."

"Did you own your business when you moved?"

"In a way. I had a reputation back home but I only really established myself when I moved out here."

"If you do not mind me asking, where is the girls father?"

Ellen frowns, "That's none of your concern."

She expects him to smile greasily, as he had before, but instead, he stops walking and narrows his eyes. He seems transformed in that moment, no longer the noble gentleman but now a dangerous man. Ellen notices that they are no longer near the houses but further down the stream and completely alone.

His hands are once again white and mottled with red.

"It's of no concern," he repeats, with a razor-sharp smile.

"That's my business," she says, firmly.

"I already know what's become of him. Drunken mess that he is."

"What are you talking about?" She demands, confused at the sudden turn of the conversation. It had seemed so light to her, so jovial.

"You're difficult to talk to, you know? So proud and stubborn. I'd have an easier time romancing a goat."

"I take offense to that, Mr Kenway."

"Oh, dear," he says, his expression enough to curdle milk, "I'm terribly sorry."

"I'm going back," she says, angrily.

"No you aren't," he says as he grabs her arm. The grip is tight, painfully so and she stares up at his face in shock as he continues to squeeze tighter.

His expression is furious, like looking at a different man. His regal face seems to have procured darker shadows. The sight makes her feel weak and reminds her of her late-husband and the way his expression would so quickly change. She remembers nights mending wounds or shielding her daughter. Broken chairs strewn on the floor, windows shattered and the crying of her daughter.

She remembers fear.

"Let go of me."

"Or what?" He says, dangerously.

"Or I'll scream."

She doesn't expect the threat to shake him and yet the shadows lighten and he no longer leans over her like a vulture.

"We wouldn't want that," he says, still gripping her arm tightly, "Now would we?"

"I'll give you one last chance before I scream. Sound travels fast in these woods."

He loosens his grip but doesn't let go, "You won't scream and you won't tell anyone about this little tiff."

"Why wouldn't I? I'll tell everyone as soon as you give me the chance," she says, as she spits at him. The spittle lands on his coat and the action sends the shadows across his face once more, darker than before.

He grabs her jaws, squeezing painfully at her cheeks and making it impossible for her to open her mouth. Her heart is beating fast, like a heavily pounding drum and the blood rushes to her head, making her eyes well with tears.

"You'll keep your mouth shut, or you'll regret it. When we get back to the village, you'll continue on as normal and you won't mention this to anyone."

She tries to pull herself out of his grasp but he only squeezes her jaw harder, making the tears run like a waterfall down her face. She tries to scream but the sound escapes like a muffled groan from her clasped mouth.

"And if you're a good little woman and you keep that mouth of yours shut, after I've taken care of Connor, I might just consider fucking you."

He releases her and she stumbles back into a large tree. She feels at her jaw and rubs at her arm, watching him warily. She wants to scream at him for being so rude and awful but her mind is fixated on the small slip he had made. The tiny secret that he had revealed in his rage.

"What did you do to Connor?" She says, in a small voice.

The man is composed again and regal looking. "It's not what I've done to him that should concern you, rather, what I'm going to do."

"You're disgusting."

He laughs, "I suppose I am."

"What are you going to do with me?" She asks, as well, still confused about his intentions.

"Nothing, until my other business is finished. You're attractive enough to come to my bed though. I just really don't like having to force a woman."

"I'll never go to you willingly."

"Oh, yes you will. By the time I get rid of that mutt, you'll be begging for me."

She glares at him and feels the anger grow within her as he laughs.

"And if you don't, well, I might just have to convince you that it's better you in between my sheets than, say, your daughter."

Her throat closes in fear and the tears spring to her eyes once more. She can hardly hold down the bile in her throat as it swells at the thought of her precious daughter being touched by the man in front of her.

"Don't you dare touch her," she says, her voice wobbling from shock.

"And that," he says as he smiles and turns back in the direction of the houses and begins to stroll, "Is why you'll come willingly."

He whistles as he walks, hardly caring that her life is destroyed. That her mind is nearly shattered from his words. She hardly thinks about the rawness of her throat or the way her arm pulses and groans.

She waits until he is gone from sight, before sobbing.

She can hear her husbands voice in her head and he is shouting. He's so loud and it makes her body shake in fear.

Not again, she thinks as she cries. _Not again._

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ AC3 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"I'm so sorry," says Myriam as she sits beside Ellen on her bed.

She doesn't have the strength to lift her head. She knows that she should have gone to the inn afterwards and talked with the town folk. But she is tired and upset and embarrassed.

"Does it hurt?" Asks the woman, delicately.

"No," she lies.

"What happened?"

"He's an awful man," she says. "An awful, _awful _man."

"I know," says Myriam as she looks at Ellen with concern. There is a genuine kindness in the other woman's eyes and it makes Ellen feel safer.

"So what part of his body do I need to saw off?" Says Mriam.

She laughs, "I think you know."

"He didn't do anything … else… to you, did he?"

"No. But he wanted to. I think. It was more what he said than anything. I can handle a few bruises, it's nothing I haven't had before. But what he said," she shivers, "I can't get over that."

"What did he say?"

"I-" she falters, "I can't even believe he could think that."

"Okay, Ellen. How about you start at the beginning, it might make it easier to talk about?"

"I'll try," she says, hesitantly. "He asked me for the walk, as I knew he would and I accepted. We went down to the stream and headed off a ways, which is further from the village than I thought. He talked about being in England, about London and such. It was all very mundane. And then he asked me about my husband. Well, I hardly know him, he's talked to me maybe two times and now he's trying to get information on my failed marriage? Am I going mad in thinking that's rude?"

"Not at all."

"So I say that it's none of his business because it _isn't._ And then he changed. Not too noticeably at the start but then he started getting vicious and talking about how he knows that my husband is a drunkard. Before I knew it, he'd grabbed me and started talking about how Connor."

"Connor?"

"He didn't say much, but he let slip that he's alive and definitely not absent by choice."

"He had to have said something else to have spooked you that much."

She nods, feeling the hairs at the back of her neck stand to attention as she reflects on the moment. "He tried to convince me that eventually I'd want to be with him."

"But he's a sleeze-bag."

She nods, "And he gave me an ultimatum." She draws in a deep breath, trying not to lose her composure, "Me or … my daughter."

Myriam's face contorts into a look of disgust. It gives her pleasure to see the expression, to see the same look of horror that had been within her since the walk.

"That's," says the woman, her face still drawn in an expression of deep disgust, "T-that's evil."

Ellen nods, looking down at the ground. She draws in a deep breath, trying to still her erratically beating heart.

"Your daughter isn't even a woman yet," says Myriam, her eyes still wide and her breath coming erratically.

"I know," she says. She truly does know.

"And the way he must have grabbed you," says the woman, "it must have been very painful. You'll be bruised for weeks."

"It's alright. I'm used to it."

"How sad."

"It's the way it is," she says firmly.

"And it's sad."

Ellen looks away, her thoughts filled with memories of her husband. She remembers the sharp movements, the jerked slaps or his ever wandering gaze. She remembers the way her little one would cry, how it would break her heart at every sob.

"What about your part of the mess? Did you find out something?"

"I don't know what I expected to find. Maybe a clue. Nothing as unsubtle as a bloodied knife or a letter with Connor's location. But maybe something a bit more than… nothing."

"Oh."

"I know. It's disappointing. This guy isn't silly and he used to cleaning up after himself, of destroying the paper trail."

"So what do we do now?"

"Hm," said Myriam, "I already know the answer to that question. It's just that pulling it off is a little bit more difficult than I would have liked."

"Plan B?"

"Yep."

"So what was Plan B?"

"It was the obvious thing to do: follow him."

Ellen raised an eyebrow, "Why wasn't that Plan A? It seems rather," she fished around for the word, "obvious."

"Exactly."

"He's given away that Connor's alive and that he's the cause for his disappearance. There's no way that he trusts you so he'll be expecting someone to follow him. He probably doesn't realise that we'd be good at following so he'll do all the regular avoidance tactics. Doubling back on himself, covering his tracks or maybe waiting in trap. But I've been hunting things all my life and truthfully, men aren't as clever as a bobcat when it's trying to hide. I can track him, I just need a good measure of luck."

"Do you think you'll find Connor?" She asks hopefully.

The other woman fixes her with a stare, "You aren't one of the children so I'll not cover anything up. Yes, I think I'll find him. Do I think I'll be able to help him? I'm not so sure, really. He'll be surrounded by guards if he's been kidnapped and probably injured. I'll have to play that part by ear, unfortunately. There are too many variables."

"So, it's Plan B, is it?"

"Yep," says Myriam, her voice resigned and ready for the next stage.

Ellen nods her approval, although she hides her shaking hands in her skirts and tries not to flinch when her arm creaks and groans.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ AC3 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**AN: **I hope you all enjoyed this chapter, it was rather interesting to write. I know I'm a bit dark with the content that I write but I like to keep my stories based in reality.

As per usual, drop me a line and tell me your thoughts. I'll try very very hard not to be so long with updating next time!


	9. Kidnapped 3

**The Homestead**

AN: Okay, okay. After endless, endless suggestions from my reviewers to include the guild, I finally broke. Yes, this chapter features a few characters that you may be happy to read about. Don't say I don't love you guys. Seriously. I made a very firm promise to myself when I started this story not to include them, after all, they are not the homestead. The winds of change and all that silly nonsense.

Enjoy!

And don't forget to review! Reading them at work is the best part of my day!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~ AC3 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

If he runs any faster, Connor thinks that maybe he might just die.

Which isn't too disturbing of a prospect for him since he's probably going to die shortly anyways.

He's never been the type of guy to plan an escape step-by-step. Although, having sustained wounds to his leg and arm, he's starting to see the merit in planning.

A shot echoes above him and the trunk of a tree sends shards of bark upon him. He pays it no mind though and rolls around another trunk as he continues to run. He attempts to leap over a rock, instantly regretting the action as his bruised body noticeable complains.

It hardly helps his situation that he hasn't walked for a week or so. His legs have reminded him of that by the continuous stumbling he's been doing. But still, he's fast and he's agile.

"He's heading for the cliff!"

His eyes widen as he realises that he is, indeed, heading for the cliff. He's about to run, to make a leap of faith, before he remembers that the cliff is nothing but a long drop and a bunch of stones. There is no undergrowth to soften his fall. There are no trees to grasp onto. There is nothing but a long drop and a sudden death.

He stops, at the edge of the cliff, feeling the wind on his face for the first time in a week. He breath is ragged and harsh and an eagle, as if mocking him, flies serenely past and back down to the forest.

He watches it go, wishing that he could follow it.

"Turn around," says a voice behind him.

Four men are walking towards him and the edge of the cliff. Usually, he'd laugh at the number. He'd crack his knuckles and feel the adrenaline fill him as he readies himself for the fight.

The gun in their hands makes him reconsider. They shine in the daylight, like beacons on the cliff to any bear or wolf below.

"Don't try any funny business, you hear?"

He nods, as he turns around to face them, his hands raised in a gesture of defeat. The eagle cries again, its call distant and full of longing. He watches it, taking his eyes off the men in front of him to follow its path. Is it a sign from the Gods? Is the eagle a signal of his wellbeing? Or is he going mad?

"You make one move and I'll blow a hole in your side."

He stands still, waiting for them to approach. A man to the side spits blood from his mouth, that does little to clear its fast flowing stream from his nose. Connor feels a sense of satisfaction as he looks at the man with his bloodied face.

A musket smashes against his jaw. The force of the blow sends him backwards, nearly falling over the edge. One of the men grabs his shirt, or what little is left of the tattered mess, and pulls him back to safety, before throwing him to the rough floor.

Connor is still reeling from the blow, his jaw a mass of pain that he has seldom felt before. Even being shot was less painful. The pain is so mind numbing that he can't even think to raise his hands to it. He can hardly breath.

But it's not over yet. A foot collides with his ribs, another with his leg. He tries not to cry out, not to show any weakness. His mind is spinning, reeling and upside down. He wonders if the cliff is near, if he should try his luck by rolling over its edge.

Before he can make a move, his arms are being twisted above his head and he's being dragged, back in the direction of the cabin.

"If you aren't going to walk, I sure as hell am not going to carry you."

It's a long way back to the cabin and although he wants to rise and walk proudly, his body wont respond. He's exhausted, he's starved and he's on the verge of giving up.

The rocks drag at his back, tearing his shirt even more. He's practically shirtless at this point.

The shirt is nothing though because there is only one thing that is in his mind. One focus of his attention that makes him both angry, pitiful and hopeful.

Where is his guild?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ AC3 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"If you'd stay off it, like a good boy, you wouldn't even be sitting here."

"But Mary said that I couldn't climb the wall and I could! I really could. I did it last summer and she's just jealous anyways because she can't climb at all. Everyone knows that girls can't climb but my da' always says to be a man so I couldn't _not _climb the wall."

Jamie sighs, the irritation rising as he listens to the boy prattle on. It's the third time in the month he's had to give the boy a talking to. At least if he was his father, he'd have some sort of an investment in his safety.

"And obviously," says Jamie as he ties the not for the boys bandage on his leg and pulls at it, perhaps harsher than he should, "You could not climb the wall."

"Ouch," says the boy, his face forming into a pout. "You're mean."

"I'm mean?" He says, incredulously, "I just spent half an hour of my day taking care of you because you were too stupid to think ahead. And I'm mean? Oh and don't even get me started on how I'm not even charging you."

"I guess not," says the boy, slightly confused. "I just mean… you're grouchy? Yeah, grouchy."

Jamie sighs, "Boy. Just go."

The boy's face splits into a smile, "Okay, thank you!" He says as he totters back to his feet, gives his leg a few shakes for good measure and runs back to the hole he crawled out of.

He's convinced. That boy is the devils spawn. His version of hell will be mending his wounds until eternity. If he opened _Dante's Inferno,_ the last level would surely be: the boy who decided not to pay but kept on getting hurt.

Jamie fights the urge to drink. Really fights it. Can barely help himself. He needs a gin and he needs it now.

No, he doesn't need it. He wants it, that's for sure. But he doesn't need it. So maybe he needs it? Not everything that is needed is had. He needs money and he's flat out of that.

He decides that the last level of hell will be: the boy who decided not to pay but kept on getting hurt and the always unreachable bottle of gin.

He really wants a gin.

His eyes flick to the chest in the corner of his dingy, broken down sack of crap that he calls a house.

He licks his lips.

"Looking for this?" Says a voice.

Dobby is leaning on the door frame, a bottle of pure, beautiful gin dangling in her hand.

"No," he says. "But… now that you've brought it up…."

She laughs, "I don't think so," she says as chucks it over her shoulder.

He tries not to cry at the soul-splitting sound of it shattering on rocks.

He now knows the sound of angels weeping.

"What did you do that for?" He demands, his soul on fire.

"Because you asked me to. I'm more than happy to be the enemy if it stops you from going overboard."

"I … I mean… I guess," he says, torn between trying to be sober and wanting gin. "But gin!"

She laughs. "You'll live."

Dobby walks in a bit, kicking the door back into its frame as she saunters to the table and sits on it. She's lean, as usual and more confident than he's ever seen a woman. She's a killer, through and through.

"Okay, fine. Thank you, Deborah," she smirks while he continues, "I have a hard time believing though that the only reason you came here is to keep me sober."

"Actually, I do have another reason."

"Of course. Business as usual, with you."

"Of course," she pauses for a moment and he can tell that she is attempting careful wording, "When was your last assignment?"

"Why?"

"Just play along."

"Okay. Well, probably around 2 weeks ago."

"Does that seem… odd, to you?"

"Why would that be odd?"

"We usually have an assignment every week."

"I don't."

"Oh," she says, avoiding eye-contact. "Then again, I don't really have anyone relying on me to be alive so I'm a bit more expendable."

He doesn't answer but it does seem truthful. He provides a needed service to the community. Although he'll stand up for what's right and for what the country needs, his mind is always focused on the poor and the sick.

"It just seems odd of Connor to not talk to any of us."

"So no one has had a mission?"

"No one. Not even word from Connor."

"Hm," he says, thinking deeply. They trade a glance, both too anxious to actually admit what was on their minds.

He needs to say it though, or the silence will never end, "So you think he's in trouble?"

"Connor has always taught us not to ignore intuition. It's what keeps us alive in this job. It's what makes us do what's right. He's gone away before, yes, but he's always told us why. He's never been gone for this long, either. I just feel like there is something happening that we're missing."

"Then what are we supposed to do? What if he's just having a break? I don't want to crush the mans pride by showing up at his doorstep to see if he's sick."

"And what if he's not?"

He's silent, thinking it over. If there was any of their guild who could handle themselves, it was Connor. And yet, he feels something bubbling in the pit of his stomach as well. Connor might not talk to him every 2 weeks but he's always been around and directing the other assassins. With the Templars so recently disbanded, it'd be mad for the man to simply go on holiday.

"So what are you thinking?" He asks directly.

"Check it out. Let's go to the homestead and see what's happening. If there is nothing happening, at least we tried."

"I can't."

"What do you mean, you can't?"

"I can't go," he says, resignedly. "I'm needed here. I'm fine with missions, when I can see the outcome. When I know that I'm making a difference but I can't just run off because of a bad feeling. There are people dying here that need my help and no doctor will step near them without a sign of payment. If I leave, I might as well cut their throats myself."

"I see," she says, curtly, as she hops off the table. She looks restless, and looks around the room, pointedly avoiding his eye.

"Take Stephane."

"Stephane? Really." She says, groaning.

"He's your best bet. If there is something going on, you'll need someone who gives a damn on your side. Stephane will go through hell to help out Connor."

She nods, heading for the door.

"Fine. I'll take Stephane."

"Don't be mad with me, Deborah. He's alright."

"He's reckless."

"But he gets the job done."

"Fine," she says. "I get it. I'll take Stephane."

"I'm sorry," he says again, "I'm needed here."

"I know. But it doesn't mean I still can't be pissed at you."

"I'd come if I could."

"I know," she turns, angrily, to face him. "Don't you dare touch a drop of liquor while I'm gone. I'll find out. You know I will. If I find out that you didn't come just to get blind drunk, I'll slit your throat."

"Understood," he says, pleased.

He prefers anger from her, rather than silence. The silence is her true rage and her most deadly sign.

She gives him a small smile. "I'll see you soon."

He raises a hand, watching her go.

He needs a drink…. of water.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ AC3 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"There is no passion in these people," says Stephane, for perhaps the fiftieth time in their trip.

Deborah doesn't roll her eyes. If she rolled her eyes every time the man said something unnecessary, she'd have a permanent headache. Her eyes would have rolled so far out of her head that they'd be rolling on the ground, down hills and into little cracks in the path.

He continues, with no prompting from her, "Even the way that they farm. There is no zeal to their movements."

"Maybe because they're tired," she says, tired herself of his talking.

"Maybe. But I am tired as well. We are all tired. Tired off this game that we play with the Templars. This cat and mouse of never-ending murder and deceit. I wish to live in a land of honour, of respect and beauty. This land is so pristine, and yet the blood of thousands of men already stain it?"

She considers Stephane lucky that Connor's manor looms in front of them. Her irritation is overwhelming in its ferocity and she's glad that she's learned, from long ago, how to keep an impassive face. Nothing annoys her more than a dog that barks but says no words.

She hushes him, frowning dramatically as they walk up to the front door.

She knocks.

They both listen intensely for the sound of Connor. His shout from the stable, a distant snore in a bathroom. They don't need to wait long, already there are footsteps in their direction.

The door opens and her expectant smile disappears.

"Who are you?" Says a man that looks like a peacock.

She raises an eyebrow, offended by his tone, "Who are you?"

"I'm the owner of this manor."

"No you are not." She says, firmly. She doesn't like his tone. In fact, she doesn't like his clothes, the way that they sparkle in the sunlight and fit, ever so snuggly against his body. She doesn't like the oiled moustache or the lazy expression of irritation he gives her.

She doesn't like him.

"I do indeed. I am the next of kin within the Kenway family. Until Connor returns, this is my property to do as I wish with."

She trades a glance with Stephane, who is watching their exchange with dark eyes. For once, he is silent.

"Connor has no next of kin. Explain yourself."

"I don't need to explain myself to you," he says, haughtily. "I require no reason for residing her, beyond the permission of Connor himself."

"He gave you permission?"

"Of course. Who do you think I am? A squatter? You offend me."

She keeps her mouth shut, feeling that she might do something soon that she would regret. Her fingers twitch and the hidden blade presses against her arm with a delicious weight. She curls her hands.

And then stops as his eyes follow the movement. There is something strange in his expression, as if a sudden realization has dawned on him.

She wonders whether to believe his story or whether to kill him, right where he stands.

He steps back a pace but in a manner that shows no intimidation, no motion of being threatened. He simply moves to make space, as if resigned for a fight.

"_Je suis désolé_," says Stephane and Deborah grinds her teeth at the meekness of his words, "We simply wish to see Connor."

"Well you can't," says the man, his lip upturned in a sneer at Stephane's accent, "He's away."

"Our deepest apologies, we will leave you in peace," he says, as he grabs Deborah's arm and pulls her away from the man.

They walk in silence until they hit the road, aware of the strange man's persistent stare at their backs and the burning fury that follows them as they depart. They follow their act until they are a kilometre or so away, until no one passes them on the road and only the birds sing to the sky.

"What was that," says Stephane, rounding on her.

"What was what?"

"That little tantrum you just threw."

"Tantrum? That man was offensive and rude and he's lucky I didn't slash his throat."

"Stop acting like a child," he says, "you are an assassin, not a woman. You are an assassin, not a person. You are an assassin and he… he was a Templar."

She freezes, "You're making things up."

"No. I am not and you are not blind either. Connor disappears for weeks and suddenly a man is living in his house? A man that Connor has never mentioned? What about the way he watched your hand, the way he expected something concealed to be revealed? Or the way he stepped back, as if to widen the space to fight? That man was no simple crook, nor a far away Uncle. That man was a Templar and I'll cut off my _bite _if he wasn't."

"You'll have to cut it off then."

"Listen to your gut. To the feeling in your stomach. Listen like Connor has taught us. Does this feel right? Did that _paon _seem right?"

"No," she admits, slowly. "He didn't."

"Then that's enough for me. But not enough for anything to be done. We must talk to the other villagers, learn of what they know. They are smart, I am sure and more aware than we are of the man in the manor."

"Okay," she says, surprised by the way the man had so quickly assumed control. She had expected him to be dead weight, a heavy addition to her solo journey. But he had surprised her, even impressed her with his behaviour and deductions.

"You seem surprised by all I have said?" He says, with a lazy grin.

She punches him in the arm, as light as a sisters throw against a teasing brother, "I just forgot that you had a brain up there is all."

"It's up there," he says, with a cheeky wink.

She laughs, leading him to the houses that border the village and down a winding path. She feels lighter, despite the heavy thoughts in her head. She had been concerned about whether she would get along with Stephane. Conversation wasn't her best strength, she was no politician or poet. There was a very good reason why she went into the business of killing. Killing didn't require speaking.

Killing only required killing.

They stop outside of the inn, staring at it for a moment.

"Just try to be," she dances with the words on her tongue, "Subtle when you talk to the villagers. I don't want to worry them unnecessarily."

"Me? Subtle? Easy," he says as he walks to the inn door.

She swallows thickly.

Opening the door, she is surprised to see a few people about.

It's the middle of the day and the village is small so she wasn't expecting anyone but the innkeeper to talk to. Obviously, the villagers didn't expect her either, as the din of conversation dramatically reduces at their arrival. A small group, only a few in total, are huddled closely together around a table.

Stephane doesn't seem to mind, either from simply not noticing or from not giving a damn. Either way, she follows him in further until he is standing at the bar.

"Two glasses of sauvignon-blanc," he says.

Deborah audibly groans at the request. Subtlety is not his finer points.

The innkeeper doesn't seem too bright, "Ah, a sav? A sav. Hm, a sav?"

"Yes, good sir."

"We… well the thing is," he says, fumbling, "I'm sorry to disappoint you two but we do not have any in stock at the moment. But, if you are interested, I could offer you each a mug of ale?"

"_Merci_," says Stephane, throwing a few coins on the bench top as he walks to a table.

The group around the other table still haven't picked up their conversation again and are sitting awkwardly in silence. She finds the scene funny to watch, especially as they open their mouths to broach another topic, before shutting it again and staring off into the distance.

The innkeeper eventually brings over their mugs of ale, frothy and spilling over the edges from its generous serve, "So, what brings you two up our way?"

"We are here to see our friend. Connor Kenway."

"Connor?" Says the innkeeper, surprised.

"You know him?"

"Why of course! We all know him. He lives in the manor, half a mile down the road."

"Yes," says Stephane, "we had the unfortunate luck to encounter its current residence."

"You talked to him?" Says a woman, dressed in slacks with various knives and weapons concealed messily in her clothing. Deborah decides that she likes the woman. Something about intuition. Mainly, she just likes a girl with a knife.

"Talked is a generous word," Deborah says, before taking a long draft of ale.

The woman smiles, "I know the feeling."

"So where is Connor?"

"Good question."

"You don't know?"

"I was hoping you might?"

"Not a clue," she says, resignedly.

The woman walks over and holds out her hand. Deborah shakes it, "Myriam. I'm Myriam, it's nice to meet you."

"Deborah," she responds. "And this is Stephane."

"Pleasure," says the woman as she pulls out a chair and sits on it heavily. "So you haven't heard anything either?"

"Not for a few weeks."

"Same. And have you heard of that fellow up there? Alistair?"

"Alistair? No. Nothing. Connor has never mentioned him."

"It's the same with us."

A silence dawns on them and she trades a glance with Stephane. He is quiet again, a trait she is beginning to enjoy. He glances at Myriam quickly, as if gesturing for Deborah to talk to her more.

"I've only just met you so excuse me if this is forward," she says, slowly, "but I'm a bit concerned about Connor."

The woman lets out a breath of relief, "I am too. I'm glad you said something, actually. We've been trying all sorts of things to work out where he went. Alistair hasn't exactly made himself welcome here."

"What has he done?" Pipes in Stephane.

"Other than being rude? He's been violent as well. Connor would never put up with that. He'd never let a relative stay in his house without greeting him, regardless of what business he had on. It just isn't like him."

"It isn't. I agree."

"So what do we do?"

"We?" Says Dobby, with a glance at Stephane.

"Yeah," says Myriam, as she looks over her shoulder at the group of men and women crowded around the table who are watching them solemnly. "We."

She watches the villages, noting their defiant stances and the way the anger that burns off them in waves. She wonders just how the Templar could be so stupid, how he could move into the area and so quickly neglect and anger its local population. But then, she considers, Templars were hardly know for their intelligent reasonings. Anger and vengeance were all that they cared about.

"Okay," she says as she gets to her feet, feeling a slight twang in her back that makes her wince. "Who can use one of these?"

She holds up her gun, raising it into the air nonchalantly.

They villagers smile.

"Let's just say," says Myriam as she stands to attention as well, "We've pretty familiar with weapons."

"And explosives," says a man with a french accent at the table. The sound of a familiar voice makes Stephane turn to face him, trying to someone discern from simply watching him what part of France he was from.

"And explosives," says Myriam.

Dobby feels a familiar rush of adrenaline run through her.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ AC3 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**AN: **So amigos, what do you think? Did I write them well? Are you still interested in my mini story? Are you still reading at all?

Oh well, I just hope at least one person had a good time reading.

Drop me a line or two, if you have the time.


	10. Kidnapped Conclusion

**AN: **WARNING. This chapter contains violence, swearing, torture, death and animal abuse.

Yep, this is an intense chapter. You know what really grinds my gears sometimes about this fandom? They seem to not make the connection between the fact that an Assassin is a murderer. At least in my humble opinion, Connor, Dobby, Stephane etc are not good people. They are murderers and regardless of their motives, I could not condone their actions if I knew them personally. In saying that, it doesn't mean that they aren't interesting. Or that I don't like their personalities. But I don't think they're good people… if that makes sense!

The aim of the chapter is to reinforce that feeling of mine. That if you were a normal person, like Myriam or Norris, looking at the actions of Dobby or Stephane, you would be shocked, appalled and disgusted. These people are murderers and they live in a completely different world of morals than I do.

Therefore, I repeat, there is torture, violence and animal abuse in this chapter.

Now, to shout outs!

**Madzilla1010: **I dub thee, official best reviewer of this story. Arrived a bit later than some other ones but you've reviewed every chapter and been really, really, exceptionally kind. You're exactly what an author hopes to get when they get a reviewer. You're awesome.

**Rachel: **No romance for Connor, I'm afraid! He's a bit of a lone wolf!

**Stuck In Oblivion: **You love how I what? Tell me! Oh god, the suspense. What a cliffhanger of a review! I want to know what the rest of that sentence was going to say!

**Sofia:** It's an awesome compliment to be told that it's similar in style to the game. Thank you so much!

**Cherry Chain: **I know the feeling so bad! I used to have the same thing happen to me when I was in university. It's that torn feeling between wanting to pass, and wanting to read more fanfiction! You've give me a great idea though for upcoming, stand alone homestead chapters!

And to all the rest, you're praise is simply divine! I am overwhelmed by how kind you all are, especially because I nearly have an anxiety attack when I upload these chapters. I'll never be the kind of person to truly believe my work is as good as the reviews say. But thanks for sticking by me anyways and for being so kind!

And one last note, this is the final chapter in the mini-story arc.

~~~~~~~~~~~~ AC3 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dobby lines up her rifle.

Her posture, as usual, is perfect. Her legs are just the right width apart. Her hands unshaking in their handle of the weapon. Her eyes, never blinking.

She takes a breath and her heart nearly ceases to beat.

She slowly curls her finger to pull the trigger.

The can flies off, somewhere into the forestry behind the inn. She lets go of the breath restrained in her chest, lowers the rifle and looks beside her.

Myriam is holding a pistol, the barrel smoking as she grins and lowers the gun.

"Good shot," says Deborah, genuinely.

Myriam cocks her eyebrow, before tucking the gun into her waistband and turning to face the rest of the group. After another wary glance at the woman, Dobby follow suits, although she instead slings her gun across her shoulders. Her fingers itch to use it, now that it's loaded and the adrenaline is running through her.

Stephane is chatting with Norris, their faces a mess of expressions, laughs and the occasional frown. They seem to talk with their hands, although their words flow like water from their mouths. It makes her smile to see them already so close, bonded by the nature of their segregation due to their accents.

The sun is hardly up.

The birds seem lethargic and even she has to fight back a yawn. She enjoyed her rest at the inn, she always slept well before a mission. However, she missed its comfort and the softness of her pillow. The air is chilly in the morning, despite the heat that comes at noon.

"So," she says to the group, and Norris and Stephane stop talking, "Are we ready?"

Three nods reply to her statement and she nods in return.

"You sure?" She asks, just to make sure.

"We're sure," says Norris, his eyes suddenly darker and heavier beneath his brow. Dobby is used to see the killing look come over the eyes of her guild-members but it seems oddly foreign and strange on the peasants face.

"Okay, then. Let's go. Don't tarry behind."

They head off in the direction of the mansion, their footsteps loud and hardly hidden as they head up the path. A lace curtain ruffles in a house as they pass and she watches it for a moment, wondering who was staring back at them.

The walk is short and not long enough by her accounts. She's fine with what she's about to do, after all, it's part of her job. But she doesn't want to scare the two villagers, to make them wonder just who Connor is friends with.

She thinks about Connor for a moment and disregards her previous thoughts. Whatever she did for his safety would be worth it.

"Okay," she says, as she rounds on Myriam and Norris. "You aren't coming in for this bit."

"What!" Says Myriam, with outrage on her face. "Why not? I have just as much right to confront him as you do."

"You do but you don't have the guts to do what I'm about to do."

"Yes I do. You have no idea of what I'm capable of."

"That doesn't matter. You're both staying here."

"No."

"I know the man up ahead," she admits, lying only slightly. She knows _of _him, not necessarily personally though. "He'll kill you. You're too important to Connor. And besides, this isn't even the important part, this is just gathering the information."

"I want to go up."

"Well, you can either act like a brat and through a tantrum or contribute effectively to a plan that might save Connor's life. Are you a hindrance or a helper?"

Myriam grumbles, her eyes angry and dark, "A helper."

"Good." She says, turning around, "Then stay here. Actually, no. Don't stay here. If you want to actually be of some help, go and fetch Dr Lyle."

"Why?" Says Myriam, warily.

"You'll see."

She walks off with Stephane, feel a slight sense of irritation come over her. This is why she liked being on her own. Less tantrum's.

The mansion door shudders under her heavy knock.

Footsteps resound inside.

She can imagine him, still waking up in the daylight, perhaps shaving in the upstairs bathroom. He probably has a silk housecoat on, with images of peacocks or Asian women trailing down its lapels. She imagines an early glass of whisky and the way he'd smooth out his moustache with an eerie precision, before smiling at his reflection in the mirror.

It's funny that he is in a satin housecoat when he opens the door.

As she expects, his face turns from expectation to disgust at the sight of them. She sees him quickly flick his eyes, a single glance taking in the sight of the guns, the concealed weapons and their hardened expressions. He's a Templar, she reflects. Through and through.

"What?" He says, moodily.

"I think you know," she says, wearily.

He steps back a pace but his expression doesn't change.

"Springing on me while I'm unarmed? How savage. In fact, it's just what I'd expect from anyone lead by that half breed mutt. I didn't think you'd guess who I was though, being as stupid as you both are."

"You sure you want to continue with that?" Says Stephane, his eyebrow arching dangerously high.

"I'll do whatever I want," he says. "And if you don't leave my porch right now, I'll make you regret it."

Two burly men step into view, obviously just having awaken as well. One is shirtless and has thick curls of hair on his chest and back. The other is slight, with various tattoos and scars on his abdomen.

They stand behind the peacock man, glowering.

Dobby trades a glance with Stephane and he bobs his head, as if saying, 'alright, we gave him a chance.'

She sighs.

She did give him a chance.

Within a few moments, Dobby has raised her musket and fired at Alistair's leg.

The reaction is loud and they're well prepared for the screams. She hopes that Myriam is watching and that's she's chewing on her earlier words. She wasn't cut out for this part of the plan, only the assassins are.

The appendage bursts at the close range shot and the blood splatters across their clothing. It bothers her because she quite liked her slacks and blood is a serious pain to get out.

The two men are slightly shocked by the action but they react quickly, charging at Dobby and Stephane like bulls. She ducks to the side of one and slams her fist into his ribs while he turns to follow her. He steps back a pace and lifts his arm to cradle the impact area, a movement she grins at. Jumping slightly, she raises her arm and slams the hidden blade into the top of his spine, lodging it just below his skull.

He seizes up and she withdraws the blade as he falls to his knees. His massive body shakes uncontrollably and he doesn't scream, although his mouth and eyes are wide with shock. He's dead by the time he hits the floor, although his body continues to shudder and twitch.

She looks over just in time to see Stephane break a chair over the other mans head. He falls to the ground as well and lays unmoving next to his colleague.

They breathe heavily, looking each other over with a glance for any wounds. Emerging unscathed from the fight, they round on the peacock man, who is on the floor.

"We gave you a chance," says Stephane, as they drag the man inside.

He's screaming and clawing at the ground, his eyes as white and wide as a panicked horse. There is blood on the walls, on the man and on them. It's quite a nice shade of red, just what she imagines the perfect rose to look like. Maybe a bit darker than a truly lovely rose but nice. His bloodied stump of a leg leaves a red trail on the floor as they drag him and they both grind their teeth in irritation from the screaming and carrying on. His shoe, with a decapitated foot, is in the corner of the hallway, flung there by the force of the shot. He still screams and carries on as they dump him on the floor and stand back.

Really, thinks Dobby to herself, it was only one leg.

Hardly enough for such a fuss.

"You just shot off my fucking leg!" Screams the man, his eyes still wide. Sweat is pouring off him and they both know that he's going into shock.

"I did," she admits.

She presses the mansion door shut and pulls up a fading wooden chair. Sitting on it, she cradles her rifle on her lap and watches him. Stephane, having previously broke the chairs counterpart over the burly man's head, stands behind her.

"You shot off my fucking leg!"

"We've established that already," she says.

He's gasping for breath and gripping onto the appendage for dear life. Dobby watches the pool of blood grow bigger and bigger. Now that it's spread across the floor, she quite likes the colour. It's a bit lighter than at first, a bit clearer.

"Now," she says, carefully, "you're going to die if I don't do anything about that leg. It's not a probably or a maybe. You will die if I choose to leave you here."

"You're fucking bartering with me? After you just shot off my fucking leg?"

"Well, yes. I am. I mean, really, what did you expect? You come into our territory, kidnapped our international leader and you expect us to just ask you politely for his whereabouts? It's almost like you've forgotten what we are. I kill for a living. So does Stephane. Shooting off your leg is quite mundane compared to things I've done before. Just look at your two men, they were nothing. We hardly lost our breath killing them."

"I'll kill you all," he says, rocking back and forth, his face tight from the pain.

"No, you won't. You're going to die," she pauses, for dramatic effect. "Of course, you don't _have_ to."

"I'm fucking going to kill you. I'll cut you up, I'll hunt you down and slice you –"

"Yes, yes," says Stephane, "We get it. You're going to kill us. Okay, we know. Can we move on now?"

"I agree," says Stephane, "If you die before we come to an arrangement, I'll be very disappointed."

Alistair spits and it lands in his own blood. His face is pale and he's shivering and still rocking back and forth.

"Okay, so, here's the deal. You tell us where Connor is and I'll get you a Doctor."

"Fuck you both. I'll murder you and take your intestines and –"

"We get it. Okay. We really get it. Can we move on now? I'm trying to sort this out and you're being very uncooperative."

"I'll never tell you anything. I'll die before I say a word."

"With that attitude you will."

Alistair is ignoring them and tearing off parts of his shirt. He's wrapping the rags around his stump, whimpering as the blood soaks through within moments. He unwraps the rags and ties them just above the stump, cutting off circulation to the area.

"Without a Doctor, that isn't going to help. You need professional care, not some rags. I'll get you that help, if you tell us where Connor is."

He laughs, the sound hollow and filled with agony, "I've prepared for death all my life. You can't convince me by hanging that in front of me. You asked…" he takes a deep breath, before struggling through the pain, "whether I realised who you are. Well do you realise who I am? I'm a Templar and a bit of blood or the promise of death does nothing to phase me."

"We know," says Stephane. "But what about revenge."

The man stops rocking in place.

"Being dead won't make us pay for this. Being dead will only mean death. But life means time to find us. Life means time to make us pay."

The man grunts, "You would let me go, just to be hunted?"

"Yes. If you will tell us his location."

The man pauses, making eye contact with them. They can see the fury in his eyes, the demonic rage that is building within them. She knows that she might be tortured in the future, that she might die from his attempts at revenge. But it'd be worth it, to see Connor free.

"Fine," he struggles out with.

She nods, "Watch him Stephane."

"What the fuck am I going to do with one leg you idiot?" He says, through gritted teeth.

She shrugs, not really caring.

He's started to froth at the mouth a bit, a bad sign. Luckily, and she tries not to show just how lucky it is, a knock is at the door. Stephane moves to open it but she stops him, gently.

"I-I was going to yell out," says the Templar, shakily, "but I'm guess they're friends of yours. Hardly the…" he swallows, "help I need."

"They're friends… but they also have help with them. If you tell us Connor's location, you will survive."

"And if I don't?"

"You're dead. Why would you care?"

"Not a god fearing women, then." He laughs, and the sound jars her and she shifts her shoes back a bit, to save them from the blood that is starting to spread further and further. She wonders if he even has any more blood to give. She wonders if she's taken this too long, whether he will really survive.

"Fine then," he says, "He's to the North-West. Farther than where you hunt. There is a cabin in the woods. It looks small and run down but underneath is where you'll find him."

She smiles, "Good. I'm glad you cooperated. Although, I'll have to let you know, I'm going to personally kill anyone in that cabin who isn't on our side."

"Go ahead," says the man, "they're idiots. Mindless drones. We have hundreds of them just waiting for the chance to serve us. We say they're Templars and they bow to the ground for us. But they're just meatheads, nothing but wasted space."

She gets up from the chair and Stephane opens the door a bit, before turning back to her, waiting for her nod, and swinging it wider.

Dr Lyle, as planned, is standing next to Myriam and Norris, all of whom are staring in at them.

Their expressions instantly change as they take in the sight. Of the musket in her hand, the blood splattered walls and the shaking, pale, angry looking one-legged man that is lying on the ground. Not to mention the two dead bodies that are laying on the floor.

"What on earth happened here?" Says the Doctor, as he shuffles into the room, kneels next to Alistairs, opens his medical bag and starts to examine the wound.

"We had a disagreement," says Stephane, "Try to keep him alive. We're going."

"You can't just leave!"

"I think we can," says the man, staring down at Dr Lyle. The Doctor avoids eye contact, sweat forming on his brow as he gets to work.

Myriam, Norres and Dobby follow Stephane out into the sunlight. They breath deeply, trying to get the smell of iron and rust out from their nose and the sight of a mangled stump from their minds.

The two villagers are watching them.

She hardly cares.

They were going to find out sooner or later that they were better at hurting others than most people are. She doesn't take a huge amount of pride in what sometimes has to be done but she knows her job is needed. Death is sometimes the only punishment worthy of such evil men. She knows that the man inside, the one with the satin housecoat and the missing leg, will never stop trying to find them. But it gives her a certain amount of comfort. The stability of knowing that she'll always be an Assassin and never a Templar.

"Let's go," she says, breaking the intense staring of the other group. They still watch her wearily although they follow her around the back of the house to the horses that are snorting and pawing at the doors of their stalls. She notices their thinness, the way that their hair is patched and matted. They are sick and she knows that their ride might be the last that they ever do.

"The bastard didn't take care of the horses," says Myriam, with a wince as she looks at the animals.

"Not true," says Stephane, "they would be dead by now if that was true. They have been ill tended but they have been tended."

"Choose one," says Dobby, as she grabs her tack and saddle and starts to place it on a chestnut horse that snorts anxiously at the movement.

"But they won't last the ride," says Myriam. "We'll run them into the ground. They need food and water and good grazing."

"Then we'll run them into the ground. So choose your horse."

The woman gives her a disgusted look but Dobby just turns away and tightens the buckle a little bit. The saddle is loose enough that it's comfortable for the horse but tight enough that she won't fall off. Getting on the beast is difficult as it dances away from her, although not very far as it hits the side of its stall.

She tugs on the reigns and notices a shift in the animal as it turns once more into the domesticated animal that it is. She kicks it gently in the sides and it walks out, slowly into the sunlight.

The other animals follow, although their movements are slow and they seem heavy on their feet and tired. Myriam pats her horses neck and whispers to the animal, but Dobby does neither. She isn't going to get attached to the animal. Her goal is Connor and she's ridden plenty of horses to the ground before. She's had horses shot in the head while she's riding them, she's had them break a leg and fall to the ground. She's had animals that have simply died of fright as she's dodged incoming bullets.

It's all in a day's work really.

Kicking the animals into a light trot, she leads the group onto the path and into the sunlight. They thunder over the rough ground and she lets herself breath deeply for the fresh, country air.

Myriam and Norris don't ask where they are going as they seem to realise that she is in control. That it isn't her first adventure. She notices that Norris rides closely to Myriam, as if to protect her. The thought makes her laugh. Myriam would have a better chance at fighting them off than Norris ever would.

They ride for only a few minutes until the path ends.

Pulling at the reigns, she slows her horse into a walk and veers off the clear path and into the forest. For an hour or so, they walk slowly, listening carefully to the sounds of the forest. She hears howls and hoots and birds singing in the sunshine. She hears streams bubbling, leaves rustling and twigs snapping.

They move deeper into the wilderness, they day growing longer as they travel. She wonders, when the hours start to drag, whether it's the right direction.

The first clue she gets though, is a lookout.

The man is obviously part of the Templars. He's too observant, too cautious of their approach and too muscular for a normal villager. She wastes no time in making progress.

Lifting her rifle again, she shoots him. The shot, from long distance, strikes at his chest and the force of the bullets causes the man to fall back into the undergrowth, face up. Red blood litters the ground.

"Good shot," says Stephane as they continue to move and she notes the deafening silence from Norris and Myriam.

They are more watchful as they move through the forest and she keeps an eye on the mans tracks, following them as they wind a bit further up the hill and descend over the rise. As they crest the hill, the valley below unfurls beneath them, a picturesque scene of forestry and a single, solitary cabin.

Hopping off their mounts, they tie the horses to the nearby trees. Looking down into the valley, they can see a plume of smoke rise from the chimney of the cabin. Dobby is slightly surprised that they actually managed to find the place. The wilderness surrounding the Homestead was hardly easy to navigate.

"Okay," she says, turning to them. "This is the plan. We take to the trees, take down the guards as quietly as possible and get inside that cabin. Do whatever you need to, if it means getting closer. Leave your morals behind with the horses or don't get in our way."

They nod, although Norris looks concerned, "ah, well, I am not trying to be difficult. I wish that I was making this easy but the thing is, I can not climb trees as well as all of you."

"Hm," says Stephane, "One unit on the ground shouldn't be an issue."

"Okay. Then I'll follow."

"Good, let's go," Dobby says.

Jumping into the trees, they move higher and higher into the canopy. The air grows lighter and fresher as they move further up, until eventually, they are standing at the top and staring down at the valley.

Jumping to the next tree, they try to keep quiet. She hardly cares about the guards but she knows it's necessary to take them out.

When she spots another, standing under a thick branch, she quickly hops onto the branch and drops. The guard make a slight gasping sound but she's already broken his ribs and probably punctured his lungs. She leaves him gasping on the ground, foam bubbling at his mouth.

She hears another impact from further in the trees, but sees Myriam and Stephane run overhead. Norris is obviously contributing to their stealth.

Eventually, they are on the border of the tree line, overlooking the cabin.

Two guards pace out front, completely unaware of their presence. She hears a slight sound, hardly enough to bother the guards down below and turns to watch Myriam. The woman's bow is loaded and ready to go. She gives Dobby a look, as if asking if it's alright to kill them, before frowning, concentrating, and releasing the arrow.

It thuds into the chest of a guard, who hits the cabin wall with a dull sound. The other guard swears and draws out his musket. It's no use, though, because Stephane has already thrown his knife and it's landed precisely at the junction of neck to collarbone. They're both dead and the way is clear.

They crawl down from the trees, silently. The twigs crack under their feet and they keep low as they approach the cabin.

Halfway to the door, it creaks open, just a fraction and her eyes widen as a gun peers around the corner and points directly at Stephane.

She doesn't think, doesn't even consider the consequences. She simply barrels into him as it fires, pushing her colleague to the ground. She tries not to yell out at the pain, but the bullet has passed through her arm and it hurts like hell.

She lays on the ground for a second, before being pulled into the tree line and shelted behind a gnarled trunk.

"Fuck," she says, as she looks at the wound.

"Thank you," says Stephane, as he crouches in front of her. "Here, let me have a look."

"No, we don't have time. There are more inside. It won't take long for a reload."

"Don't worry, be calm. Norris is taking care of the situation."

"Norris?"

"_Oui, _he came prepared."

She's sweating furiously but she looks across at Norris who is fiddling with something in his hands. The next thing she sees is a flame, a precise throw and a few moments of silence.

The explosion splinters the wood of the front door and takes out half of the cabin. Rocks fly off into the woods and they shelter behind the tree trunks. There is a haze of dust in the air and then silence. No shouting, cursing or screaming. Just complete silence.

They peer around the tree trunks and she smiles at the sight of another guards decapitated body slung over a half-broken piece of timber. He's obviously dead and not the only one either. Another guard is lying further in the cabin, his body unmoving.

Coming out from their cover, with Dobby trying to focus less on the pain in her arm, they sneak through the rubble and into the cabin.

As they enter the cabin and the full sunlight of the day leaves their faces for the shade of the roof, a sprightly guard barrels up a set of thin, narrow stairs leading into the basement at the back. He's only a child, really. Too young to even have a beard. He looks fresh and innocent and quite unprepared for the shot that kills him.

She feels sorry for him. Just for a moment. He's the enemy, she has to remember. Even though his eyes speak of being homesick and his clothes were too big for his frame. Never mind that he probably only wanted an adventure, or to be respected by the adults around him. She brushes the thought aside, focusing in on the stairs.

They go down slowly, carefully.

She goes first, followed by Stephane, then Norris and then Myriam. Myriam is facing the other side of the cabin, her mind on the alert for an ambush or an extra guard stumbling on them.

She nearly cries in relief.

Tied to a post, looking like hell itself, is Connor.

He's very still, not struggling at all, and she can tell that he is listening. His posture is straight and his body tense, so he's not unconscious. She notices the copious amount of wounds on his body, some fresh, some not. She notices that not all of the wounds are bleeding and that some are simply great bruises, or gravel burn. He's skinny as well, the result of more than a few days of food being withheld.

She'd bet on her life that he attempted an escape.

"Connor?" Says Myriam, having followed them downstairs.

The man moves, although his face is covered by a burlap sack. "Myriam?"

"Connor!" She says, as she pulls out a knife and sprints over to him. Sawing at the ropes around his arms, his waist, his neck and his legs, she's breathing harshly and focusing intently. Dobby watches the woman for a moment, surprised by the vigour in her excitement to see Connor. She wonders how Norris feels about that.

"Who else is here?" He asks.

"I'm here," answers Dobby.

"And me," says Stephane.

"I also came," says Norris, standing beside them.

Although his expression is covered, she can imagine that he's smiling under the sack. That's he pleased to see them, if a bit annoyed at their late.

The ropes come undone, seemingly all at once, and he tears off the sack with a vigorous movement. His face, usually so calm and controlled, is covered with a brilliant, almost glowing smile. Dobby can do nothing but smile in return. It's infectious. They're all smiling, never mind that she just killed half a dozen people. Connor is alright and they're back to being a guild again.

He's fine and that's all that matters.

"Are you alright?" Asks Norris, as he looks over the man.

He's not, but predictable, he answers, "I'm fine." His smile falls after a moment, and Dobby misses the sight as it goes, "But we need to get out of here."

"We've got horses up on the hill."

"Good. I need food and water, as well."

"You'll have to wait until the homestead."

He nods, disappointedly. They follow him, as he heads for the stairs. Already, he's turned back into their leader. She can't help but fall into line behind him, to admire his grace and strength despite his wounds and exhaustion. She wants to know that she's glad he's alive, but she thinks he might already know that.

"So, what happened?" Said Stephane as they step through the rubble of the cabin and into the sunlight.

"I was kidnapped at midnight, while I was sleeping. I usually sleep lightly, but they walked without any noise. There was no way, by the time I woke up, that I could stop them. They took me by carriage here, and I've been here ever since."

"No escape attempts?"

"Only one."

"That's my boy," says Stephane, with a laugh.

"What are you two doing here?" He says, gesturing at Norris and Myriam.

"Oh, us?" Says Myriam, after a pause. "We're the only ones in the homestead that had guns. Or explosives. We just tagged along. I wanted to help you, if you were in trouble, so I made sure I was here."

Connor nods, but he shoots Dobby a look that is furious. It surprises her, the anger in it. It nearly makes her stop walking completely but she continues her pace, and swallows thickly.

A silence descends over the team. Myriam and Norris seem to realise that something is not quite right.

The horses still look like death and Stephane relinquishes his ride for her. Connor rides behind, while Stephane walks up front. The horses are in no condition to run, so they walk along slowly, with no real urgency in their pace. Her arm still throbs, uncomfortably and the swaying of the horse makes her grit her teeth. But she bears her wound proudly and takes herself away from the pain and into a world of her own privacy.

"Deborah?" Says Connor, behind them, after an hour or so of silent walking. He's one of the only people in her life that uses her full name.

She turns around and she can tell by his look that he wants her to walk beside his horse. She trades a glance with Stephane, before dropping back to his pace. He doesn't talk at first, instead, slows down his horse so that there is a gap between them and the rest of the group.

"Why are Myriam and Stephane here?"

She flushes, "They wanted to come."

"So you let them?"

"Yes. I didn't want to waste time arguing with them."

"They shouldn't be here," he says, with a furious tone.

"Why not? They had guns and explosives, more than I had."

"You're an Assassin, Deborah. You are more talented than all of those guards combined. It would have been hard, yes, for you to take them all out. But with patience and a plan, it could have been done. With Stephane, you had an even better chance. Myriam and Norris should not have come."

"Connor, we thought you were dead. We hardly stopped to think, we needed to find you."

He gives her glare that is so sharp, it nearly cuts her eyes. "Is that what you've learned, after all these years? That strategy, talent and planning is nothing? That impulse is everything? I trained you to be a step above the Templars, not to head into a situation with two civilians and no plan B."

"I'm sorry, Connor. I was just worried about you."

He softens slightly, "How will I explain this to them? They've seen now that I'm friends with trained killers. That'my business can lead to kidnapping. They know too much now. You should have been more careful."

She feel disappointed in herself. Disappointed in her actions and her carelessness. It had seemed so important to find him, so achingly important that she would have revealed the whole order if it made him safe.

Her heart, her fear for her leader, had ruled over her head.

She's silent as they walk and so is Connor. He stretches out the silence until she feels like it might break her. Snap her in twain.

"But I forgive you," says Connor.

She looks up, hopeful.

"I'm glad that I was rescued. So thank you."

She nods, still feel embarrassed.

"That urgency to save one of the guild is what will make us strong. I know that you haven't always gotten along with Stephane in the past but I want you to remember what he's done as well. He followed you, I know he did. The minute I took off my blindfold, I could see that you were leading him. Remember that loyalty of his."

She nods and looks up, at Stephane who is walking ahead. She feels doubly embarrassed by herself now. For so long, she had tried to avoid contact with the man. She had seen him as loud, abrasive and head-strong. And yet, despite her cold treatment of him, he had followed her without question. He had dragged her to safety when she had been shot and he had given up his horse for her, without even a second thought.

She felt something like affection spread in her and it ferocity surprised her. She wonders how it all would have gone if she hadn't taken him. Whether she would have been another nameless, looted body in the forest. Whether Connor would have even been alive.

She looks down at the passing ground, feeling dwarfed by the enormity of his loyalty and his trust.

"Do you think," she asked, hesitantly, "That I could do some missions with him in the future?"

Connor smiles, but it isn't as wide and beautiful as the smile in the cabin. It's small, secretive and knowing. "I'll make sure of it."

She nods, trying desperately to contain the blush that she knows is spreading along her cheeks.

Connor doesn't say anything but she can see the laughter in his eyes. It's written into every line of his body, despite its currently wearied look.

She rides beside him, feeling strange.

The feeling, she reflects, is something like happiness, with a good dash of belonging and a second helping of embarrassment. It twists in her gut dangerous and makes her feel, oddly enough, like smiling or laughing or being kind. It concerns her a bit to feel so deliriously happy, despite the trauma of the day.

She sighs and pats the mangy horses neck softly.

She feels like she belongs.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ AC3 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**AN: **Well, folks. That's all for the mini-series. I hope it ended well. I will do a follow up on the story but I'm unsure of whether it will be the next chapter. It might be an epilogue a few chapters down the way.

So what did you think? Let me know, as per usual!


End file.
